


Vanguard

by catholicschoolgirl



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Breaking Up & Making Up, Civil Rights Movement, Homophobia, Islamophobia, M/M, Original Character(s), Racism, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 18:37:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3421364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catholicschoolgirl/pseuds/catholicschoolgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“But you've been thinking about me,” Harry said. “You've been thinking about me, and now you know that I've been thinking about you. Since before we even met, I've wanted you.”</p><p>Zayn smiled wryly, feeling cynical all of a sudden. “And it's that easy?”</p><p>Harry nodded. “It should be. People try to make it hard, but I've gotta believe it's that easy. It's everything else about this damn world that's hard.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vanguard

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been a tremendous labor of love. The plot bunny first wormed its way into my head sometime in 2012, but writing it gained a greater urgency in the wake of Ferguson. The end result is a deeply personal work of fiction, but I hope you can find something in it that speaks to you, too.
> 
> Thank you to [Fee](http://zouisdirection.tumblr.com/) and [Grace](http://this-onegoes.tumblr.com/) for reading over bits and pieces. And endless thanks to [Rue](http://humannoodle.tumblr.com/) and [Emily](http://samebutharold.tumblr.com/) for their handholding, reassurances, and suggestions. This story would be a mess of raw emotion without your care and attention to detail. My appreciation honestly can't be put into words, but I hope this Author's Note got somewhat close.
> 
> Thank you, as well, to [Lau](http://fckthisboyband.tumblr.com/) for her absolutely AMAZING art for this story. From the [cover image](http://catholicschoolgirl.tumblr.com/post/111864106286/v-a-n-g-u-a-r-d-rating-explicit-pairings-zayn), to [a playlist](http://fckthisboyband.tumblr.com/post/111871819796/v-a-n-g-u-a-r-d-the-playlist-a-lot-of-people), to an [amazing edit](http://fckthisboyband.tumblr.com/post/111904803451/v-a-n-g-u-a-r-d-at-the-risk-of-seeming) \- you went above and beyond for this story and honestly believed in it when I didn't. Thank you so, so much!

 “At the risk of seeming ridiculous, let me say that **the true revolutionary is guided by a great feeling of love**. It is impossible to think of a genuine revolutionary lacking this quality. . . . Our vanguard revolutionaries must idealize this love of the people, of the most sacred causes, and make it one and indivisible. . . .We must strive every day so that **this love of living humanity will be transformed into actual deeds** , into acts that serve as examples, as a moving force.”

\- Che Guevara, _Man and Socialism in Cuba_ (1965)

 

They met during Stop the Draft Week.

It was a fairly mild day in Berkeley, California. The first real hints of autumn were making themselves known in the falling sienna leaves and the crisp air that clung to Zayn's bones. An unremarkable day, really. Zayn had woken up in the apartment he shared with his friend, Danny, same as he ever did. Took a shower. Shaved. Munched on toast and had a cup of bland coffee. Went about his routine, and save for the fact that he wore an extra layer in preparation for the protest, he didn't think much about what this day was going to mean. Hadn't expected for it to be life-changing.

Zayn had wanted to perch himself away from the main thrust of the demonstration making its way to the military induction center in Downtown Oakland, content to watch the action and take a few pictures for _The Daily Californian_ with his Nikon, but the sheer size of the protest kept Zayn from serving as only an observer. Later, Zayn would pick a newspaper off of a hardwood floor and read that something like 4,000 people were there, and he felt it, bodies squeezed together tight like sardines, men and women chanting, arms outstretched. There were cops everywhere, cold and assessing, but Zayn found himself echoing the other protestors' words, fingers that had been itching for the camera stashed in his bag instead clenching together and forming a fist. Zayn had always sucked at standing around and being passive, anyway.

It was October 20, 1967 and this was the fifth protest Zayn had gone to all week, but the first one where he would run into Harry Styles.

  
  


Looking back on it, Zayn had always had a strong passion for justice.

He was quiet, sure, but never uninvolved. His parents moved cross-country from Queens to California when he was thirteen, his father having found a job on the naval air station in Alameda. Zayn had only been in school for a week when he got into a fist fight. Some prick from the year above decided to call quiet little Rebecca Washington from Zayn's History class a nasty slur as they were all waiting for the bus back home. Something in Zayn just _gave_ and his fist was crunching against cartilage before he'd even thought about it. It just wasn't right that some people felt like they could say whatever they wanted, and even then, even at thirteen, Zayn was resentful that there was a system in place that let some people believe their words had no consequences. That they could be cruel and nasty and not get hit for it. Zayn left that fight with bruised knuckles, but the other kid had to board the bus without one of his teeth, tail tucked firmly between pasty, white legs, so Zayn counted it as a win.

Zayn's mother had yelled quite a lot when he got suspended for it, reprimanding him and going on and on about Zayn needing to be _smart_ , about how important it was that he use his words and not his fists so that nobody could dare say something about him and how he was raised. She said it was different in California, that people came from different backgrounds but didn't have the same mixing they had back in Jackson Heights. Zayn nodded like he understood, even as the words felt hollow in his ears.

Zayn's _Baba_ never did scold him for that particular incident, though. He only clapped Zayn on the shoulder once Zayn's mom left the room and presented him with a small, secretive smile and candies hidden in his palm. Zayn presumed it was something that he and his dad quietly held in common – the realization that there was just some shit his mother was never gonna really understand. She tried her best, she really did, but she never knew what it was like to be told to go back to where the fuck she came from. She was Irish so she got a lot of things, but she didn't understand that Zayn couldn't hope to one day blend into whiteness, that fighting against the fucked-up reality of the world wasn't something Zayn had the luxury of opting in or out of. It was a _necessity_.

It was hard, though. Zayn always felt like an outsider. There was a large Pakistani community in Queens and all of his cousins lived there, too. But in California, kids never seemed to know what to make of him because he didn't fit into any of the neat, predetermined boxes. Not white or Negro or Mexican, not Christian or Jewish. He was just so different. So Zayn only hung out with a handful of other people, the Riach brothers from the gym up the way included.

But Zayn was smart even if he did have a habit of getting into trouble, and when it came time to graduate, Zayn knew that he was gonna go to Berkeley even if it was his dream school and his counselor sneered at him like Zayn didn't have a chance in hell of getting in. But Zayn was gonna go to Berkeley, and live around campus, and work for the school newspaper and become _something_ after he graduated, work for the _Chronicle_ or a magazine and take some pictures. Or become a writer, or a teacher. Something that mattered, something that made a difference. And because Zayn was the ambitious type, he made it happen for himself – got into Berkeley, moved out and found an apartment around campus with Danny, who was going to Cal, too, and began working for the university newspaper.

It was a good thing, too, that Zayn got into school when he did. Especially considering the way shit very quickly went to hell in Vietnam. But Zayn still had to carry a draft card around in his wallet, still had to watch the way the war was unfolding on the news. Picked up newspapers from the hawkers on Sproul and felt his heart race at the pictures coming in from around the world. Hanoi, Havana, Paris, Selma – the whole globe seemed to be erupting, people finally casting off their shackles and demanding justice, linking arms and screaming to be heard.

And honestly, being aware, paying attention – Zayn had to believe that was enough to make _anyone_ angry, to make anyone passionate.

  
  


Zayn wasn't entirely sure when or how the protest turned violent, but at some point there were glass bottles hurtling through the air and Zayn was hightailing it down Telegraph, boots pounding against concrete as his bag slapped plop-plop on his back. He veered down to San Pablo, clipping his shoulder against the side of some liquor store when he cut it too close trying to avoid another exploding bottle. His whole body vibrated with pain and Zayn fell against the street, closing his eyes and trying to breathe steadily while his arm and head throbbed. It was only then, Zayn running careful fingers through his hair as he tried to compose himself, that he realized he was bleeding, fingers coming away wet, the blood inky and almost black. There was no way that could be good.

“Hey, man, you all right?” a voice called from somewhere to Zayn's right. Zayn looked over, taking in a tall white guy with long, shoulder-length brown hair. The hippie type, if Zayn had to catalog him based on a first impression, wearing faded jeans and a flowing plaid shirt that was almost half unbuttoned. Zayn grunted, rubbing his bloody fingers off on the concrete and trying to stand. Zayn's whole body lurched and Zayn slumped down against the side of the liquor store, blinking against the sudden but intense urge to lay down in the middle of the fucking street.

“Hey – hey, man.” The guy was shaking Zayn, patting at his cheek. He was talking to Zayn but he also had really green eyes, the kind that made Zayn wanna paint, and he hadn't done that in a long time. Not since he decided to stop doodling on the side of buildings and picked up a camera instead, an attempt at being more of a legitimate artist or something. “You gotta stay awake. Some asshole got the back of your head pretty good trying to get a cop, so let's take you back to my place and get you all cleaned up, okay?”

Zayn groaned, wanting to say that he could take care of himself, yeah, thanks, but the guy was already hauling Zayn to his feet, slumping down a little so Zayn could throw an arm over his shoulders, Zayn's camera bag thumping between the two of them awkwardly. But it was nice, kinda. Getting taken care of.

The jostling as they walked was the only reason why Zayn didn't end up passing out during the twenty-minute journey to this guy's place, Zayn more than a little surprised when he realized they weren't heading back towards downtown or North towards Berkeley, but instead ambling their way deeper into a black neighborhood. They finally stopped out front of an old yellow house in the middle of West Oakland, one that reminded Zayn of his Christian grandma's house, a little on the rundown side with a long, Southern-style porch.

Another guy was sitting outside in a raggedy rocking chair, bare feet hoisted up on an even more decrepit-looking coffee table. His hair was a shaggy dirty blonde, and he was wearing a dingy military-issue jacket and corduroy shorts, strumming mindlessly at a guitar as they approached. Blondie frowned once he took Zayn and his companion in, sitting the guitar on the floor of the porch and standing with a groan, fanning his hands over his eyes as he looked out.

“All right, Haz?” Blondie called out.

“Yeah, all right, Ni,” the guy carrying Zayn grunted out. “My friend here got clocked pretty good though – think you can patch him up?”

Blondie hummed affirmatively and made his way down the porch steps, limping a little bit but brushing off Zayn's mumbled attempt at saying he was alright, could walk by himself. Blondie slipped underneath Zayn's shoulder and his skin smelled of sweat and marijuana, very firmly of _boy_ , but he smiled warmly as he helped carry Zayn into the house.

Zayn was surprised to find that the interior of the house was far more welcoming than its exterior. It was ridiculously clean, for one. All of the furniture was obviously secondhand, looking like the sort of odds and ends people left out for free on street corners. Or maybe all of the pieces were handed down from parents, aunts and uncles, but everything had a warm, lived-in quality that made Zayn feel oddly comfortable. From the dusty brass lamp in the corner to the floral-print couch, everything was certainly a mish-mash, but it worked nonetheless.

Blondie and his hippie friend led Zayn to the couch, Blondie encouraging Zayn to sit upright while he ran through to another room, reemerging with rolled up sleeves, damp hands, and an actual medical bag. He dropped his things at the foot of the couch and immediately set to work cleaning out Zayn's wound with sure, careful fingers. The other boy grabbed Zayn's camera bag off Zayn's shoulder, dropping the bag by the front door, and then left Blondie to it, standing back and watching with intense eyes. Zayn felt pinned between them, didn't know where to look or what to do.

“I'm Harry by the way,” the hippie piped up with after some time. He had since settled down on the floor, long legs spread out over the old hardwood. “Harry Styles.”

“Zayn Malik,” Zayn answered, and something shifted in his chest at the way the hippie – Harry – smiled at him. “I – uh. I was at the protest today to take some pictures.”

“You work for the _Tribune_? ”

Zayn pulled a face. “Do I _look_ like I work for the _Tribune_?”

Harry grinned. “You never know. Had to make sure before I got too comfortable, though, didn't I?”

“Leave the kid alone, Haz,” Blondie chimed in as he dabbed something that stung against Zayn's scalp. “He obviously works for _The_ _Daily_ fucking _Cal_.”

Zayn almost turned to frown at Blondie. “How'd you know that?”

Blondie shrugged, dabbed a little more lightly at Zayn's head. “Might've seen you around campus.”

“You go to Berkeley?”

“Yup, he's earned it, too,” Harry said, standing to clap Blondie on the back. “Dear old Niall already did his service for our lovely, fucked-up country, huh, Nialler?”

“Sure enough,” Blondie – Niall, Zayn guessed – grunted, still pressing delicately against Zayn's open wound. “Did an abbreviated tour in Vietnam with the Marines last year. Figured I was too stupid for college and that the Marines might take some pity on me.”

“Load of shit,” Harry interrupted joyfully. “You're the smartest guy I know.”

“You _volunteered_?” Zayn asked, more than a little taken aback. He knew plenty of guys who had been called up. Fuck, everyone did at this point, but Zayn didn't really know anyone who willingly signed his life away on the dotted line.

“Told you I wasn't too smart, didn't I?” Niall answered self-deprecatingly. “They trained me as a medic, was assigned to a crew of bomb experts. Anyways, I got shot to hell and back and ended up stranded in California with an honorable discharge. Don't know if I'm lucky or not that the Vietcong didn't have a little better aim – they got my shoulder and my leg but missed my dick and my fucking head.”

“Don't talk like that, Niall,” Harry admonished, but Niall just grinned playfully. Zayn decided immediately that he liked Niall, the guy seemed like good people. Had a little bit of a wild look in his blue eyes, but considering the fucked up shit he probably saw in Vietnam, Zayn reckoned he could understand it.

“So how do you two know each other then?” Zayn asked, peering up at Harry. “I take it Niall's not from California originally.”

“We went to high school together in Chicago,” Niall answered with a shrug. “When I found myself in California with no money, no job, busted up leg, I started calling and writing letters to damn near everyone I knew, dialing old numbers. Was lucky that Harry ended up in California, too, as part of his grand quest to disappoint his parents.”

Harry shook his head at Niall, a blush coloring his cheeks and the back of his neck. “It isn't like that,” Harry said, turning to Zayn with a vaguely pleading expression. “I'm not – I'm not some phony, just out here to piss off mom and dad.”

“Harry was always a good kid, you see,” Niall continued, almost as if he hadn't even heard Harry speak. “Did everything right. Good grades, great hair. But then his step-daddy caught him smoking dope while listening to _Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band_ – ”

“Niall, that album came out _this summer_ – ”

“Anyways, they caught him listening to some shit and whacking the monkey to it, moaning about sucking dicks, I dunno, it doesn't matter. They gave him an ultimatum – cut your fucking hair, straighten up and get a real job, goddamnit, or get the fuck out. And Harry decided to just get the fuck out,” Niall replied with a shrug. “So, here I am, a fuck-up vet with a bad leg, and then Harry introduced me to that dickhead Louis and his friend, Liam, who is actually a sweet kid, and we decided to buy a house and live like a bunch of fucking hippies in a commune. Story over.”

“That story is actually a little inaccurate and lacking like 98% of the important details,” Harry answered with a sigh. “Niall tells it a little bit differently every single time we meet someone new. I've actually been in California since I was sixteen. I dropped out of high school, got myself a fake ID, and started hanging around with some SNCC kids from Stanford, which is how I know Louis. He's probably still at the protest – last I saw he was hurtling rocks at cops.”

“He's gonna end up arrested doing that shit,” Niall remarked. “Again.”

“I doubt he even cares anymore at this point,” Harry shrugged. “Anyways, Louis convinced me to go back to high school and get my diploma. I've been taking classes at Merritt for the past few months.”

“How come you weren't at the protest?” Zayn asked, turning to Niall. “All of the rest of your roommates were there, yeah?”

“Liam wasn't,” Harry answered. “He's at work.”

“That's cuz Liam's the only one of us that isn't an absolute failure s'far as our parents are concerned,” Niall sighed. “He works within the system, unlike the rest of us. Good kid at a good school, volunteers with the Democrats. They'll probably hire him on full time when election season swings around. I wanted to go, believe me. But I've read what the papers had to say about the last few protests. Getting shot in Vietnam was enough, thanks. Rubber bullets, regular bullets – shit still hurts like a motherfucker. What they don't tell you is that they're only rubber coating, so it hardly makes a difference when they're wedged in your ass.”

“Thanks for that image, Nialler,” Harry said, patting Niall on what Zayn presumed was his good knee before standing. “You need anything, Zayn? Water? Coffee? We got some pop in the freezer out back, too.”

“Do you have any Coke?” Zayn asked, squinting up at Harry. Zayn couldn't even remember the last time he'd had a soda – he was trying to cut back on all of that stuff, couldn't really afford to splurge on sweets much anymore. He only had soda when Danny was feeling generous and could bum some from the sandwich shop.

“Yup, Coke it is,” Harry said, raising his thumb at Zayn and smiling. Zayn could feel himself grinning a little as he watched Harry amble away, but then Zayn heard a screen door slam and Niall was tapping at Zayn's shoulder. Zayn made himself stop contemplating the broad planes of Harry's back to gaze inquisitively up at Niall.

“I think I'm going to need to stitch this wound a little,” Niall explained, frowning apologetically. “It's not huge, but it'll make a difference, believe me. I'm also gonna want you to spend the night here to make sure you don't have a concussion. Will that – is that all right?”

Zayn bit at his lip but nodded, turning his head again so Niall could continue cleaning and stitching him up.

Zayn heard a door open and close once more, and Harry returned with his arms loaded with glass bottles of Coca-Cola. Harry slid one on the floor next to Niall's foot before lifting one bottle up to his mouth, twisting the cap off between his teeth and handing it over to Zayn.

“You need to stop doing that,” Niall admonished. “I've told you it's fucking awful for your teeth.”

“It's such a cool party trick, though,” Harry said, opening the other bottle the exact same way and tossing the cap up in the air before taking a sip of his soda. “The only good thing I learned from my brief period as a street urchin.”

Niall made a soft, noncommittal noise and then Zayn began to feel a slight tug at his scalp, grunting against the sensation and clenching his fist.

“Sorry,” Niall mumbled and Zayn felt the tug again, this time accompanied by a sharp jolt of pain. Zayn breathed in hard through his mouth, startling slightly when he realized Harry was right at his side, squeezing Zayn's thigh through his jeans.

“You can like, pull on my hand if you want,” Harry said, smiling a lopsided little grin. “I know how much that shit hurts, man. I accidentally fell down the stairs once and Niall had to patch me up.”

“I told you all not to reenact _King Kong vs. Godzilla_ on the staircase,” Niall muttered darkly but Zayn hardly even heard him, was far too busy staring into Harry's eyes.

Zayn vaguely hoped he was concussed. It would serve as a good excuse later, when he was embarrassed and needed to say something to cover himself.

“Yeah,” Zayn ended up answering instead, reaching over to grab Harry's hand. “Yeah, Harry. Please.”

  
  


Niall eventually finished stitching up Zayn's wound, cleaned it again with something that stung like a motherfucker, and covered it over with a thick bandage. Niall said he would want to look at the wound again in the morning, but explained that he was tired and wanted to go to bed. He knocked Zayn's shoulders as he made his way out of the living room, his wounded leg seeming stiffer than it had earlier.

“Hope you don't mind sleeping head-to-toe with me,” Harry said, picking up their scattered Coke bottles. He was smiling hesitantly and Zayn tried not to stare even as he shook his head. Harry left the living room for a moment and when he returned his hands were empty. Harry helped guide Zayn to his feet, Harry's hands sturdy and wide as he kept Zayn upright. “Don't really wanna sleep on that old couch and you definitely can't, so we'll share.”

“We don't have to do head-to-toe,” Zayn mumbled even as he went hot all over. Harry's palms were so large where they fanned along the width of Zayn's back. “No big deal sharing a bed, right?”

Harry didn't say anything in response, just pursed his lips and raised his shoulders in a shrug. They climbed up the rickety staircase together and entered a narrow, dimly lit hallway, two doors on either side of the aisle. Harry pushed open the first one to the left, gesturing for Zayn to walk in before him.

It was a cozy little room, not quite as neat as Zayn would have expected after seeing the living room, but certainly lived-in, and facing westward toward San Francisco. Zayn imagined that Harry could glimpse the city on clearer days, not foggy, overcast ones like tonight, where clouds hung low and bathed the sky in gray. There was a cabinet pushed against one wall with a record player sitting on top of it, and then a twin sized mattress and box-spring sat underneath an open window. There were piles of books scattered all across the floor. Zayn could hear music drifting through the night as he made his way over to the mattress, kicking at a pair of trousers in his path and nearly tripping over a copy of _The Little Red Book_.

Harry closed the door softly behind them and turned on the light sitting in the corner next to the door, rubbing his hands against his clothed legs as he watched Zayn get ready for bed. Zayn peeled off his jeans and threw off his shirt, taking care to not disturb his bandage too much. Zayn kept his eyes down, feeling nervous and expectant for reasons he couldn't quite understand. Harry seemed to be warring with himself, too, eyes darting to gaze at Zayn's skinny legs and then snapping to look elsewhere.

“Do you want something to drink?” Harry asked, voice gruff and low. “Another Coca-Cola? Tea?”

“Tea would be amazing, yes, thank you,” Zayn answered, throwing back Harry's covers and sliding into bed. Harry nodded before darting out of the room again, this time keeping the door slightly ajar.

Music was still drifting through the window when Zayn reached down under the bed, poking through the books scattered around Harry's floor. Beyond Mao Tse-Tung, there was also _The Autobiography of Malcolm X_ , _To Kill A Mockingbird_ , and _On The Road_ , as well as various assorted newspapers and magazines. Zayn sorted through the papers and pulled up a copy of _The Daily Californian_ , smiling at the familiar image he had taken a few days ago blared across the front page.

Zayn hummed to himself as he flipped through the rest of the newspaper, the familiar tunes of The Supremes wafting through the air. Zayn swore that he could hear someone singing along – a female voice keeping time with the radio and belting the lyrics just as strong as Diana Ross. Zayn found himself sing along, too, tapping his foot against the mattress.

Harry pushed his way back into the room, a pair of chipped and mismatched mugs in hand. He kicked the door closed with a socked foot, making his way over to the bed and handing one of the cups to Zayn, who accepted it gratefully and took a sip, sighing at the familiar heat.

“We only have Earl Grey. Louis probably drank up all of the Yorkshire. I hope you don't mind,” Harry replied with a shrug, placing his own mug on the floor before tossing his top off and kicking off his pants. Zayn watched him through the fan of his eyelashes, trying to pretend as though he was reading when he was really tracing the stretching muscle of Harry's tanned back.

“Earl Grey is lovely,” Zayn said a little distantly, sure by this point that he really was talking about something else entirely. Harry's back reminded him of all of the boxers at the old gym in Alameda, muscular and sweat-glistening. Whenever Zayn went in to spar, he would have to avert his eyes, keep from looking too hard at the older boys, take deep breaths so he didn't get found out.

“I also wasn't sure if you took sugar or not,” Harry continued almost as if Zayn hadn't spoken. “I can go downstairs to grab the tin – ”

“Harry,” Zayn interrupted, smirking at Harry and trying to avoid memorizing the lean planes of Harry's stomach, the soft trail of hairs leading from his navel and tracing downward. Zayn had done a good job of clamping down on his urges ever since he was old enough to realize his brain had gotten all of the signals wrong. It had been hard enough growing up Muslim and brown. Zayn didn't want to add anything else on top of that. But maybe Zayn was concussed. Maybe getting hit in the head had done something to him, made him look at things he had no business glancing at. It was a shit excuse, but it would do if he was pressed. “It's _fine_. Absolutely amazing, even. Everything you've done for me today has been so thoughtful and kind. I can't even fully articulate how grateful I am. So just. Thank you.”

Harry grabbed his own mug of tea before smiling at Zayn, soft and already so, so fond. Zayn would never believe that someone who just met him could look at him like that, but here Harry was, green eyes peering at Zayn as though he was someone that you just did extraordinarily charitable things for every day.

Hell, sitting there, shoulder-to-shoulder and sipping at warm Earl Grey tea, it almost seemed like a scene out of a book, or a quiet, introspective moment from one of those movies Doniya used to sigh over dreamily. It didn't quite seem like real life, felt far more like a spell. Something that would certainly shatter eventually.

“Do you wanna go get some breakfast tomorrow?” Harry asked, turning over slightly to regard Zayn, his knee knocking against Zayn's own. Zayn had to hold his breath at the brush of skin, telling himself that the butterflies in his stomach were all side effects of getting hit and stitched back up again. Nothing more. “There's a diner a few blocks from here, this old couple runs it and they have the best hashbrowns I've ever tried. We can invite Niall and my other roommates, too, if you want?”

“Yeah,” Zayn said, drawing his eyes away from Harry's tea slick lips. This was potentially a huge mistake. “Yeah, I – I think I'd like that.”

Harry grinned and  _oh_ . There were dimples in his cheeks. There were dimples in his cheeks and he had a slow, rumbling voice and liked to drink tea in a chipped, old mug and had a copy of  _The Autobiography of Malcolm X_ lying around on his bedroom floor. 

Zayn didn't know a lot of people, but he was sure they didn't make a lot of them like Harry Styles.

“Groovy,” Harry said, still grinning at Zayn with wide green eyes and a dimpled smile. “I'll let the boys know in the morning.”

Zayn nodded and it took everything in his power not to lean over and kiss Harry on the cheek to thank him for his hospitality, for simply being himself.

They finished their tea, placing their mugs down on either side of the bed, and Harry stood up to turn off the light. Zayn watched Harry stroll back to bed and his skin was almost luminescent underneath the night sky. Everything about Harry was long and lean, and Zayn almost hated himself for wanting and wishing.

Zayn closed his eyes and wondered if it was too much to hope for, to want something real and long lasting.

  
  


The most surprising thing about meeting Harry Styles was that the rest of the story flowed easily from there. As easy as crawling into a twin sized bed next to a stranger and not saying anything when Zayn woke up in the middle of the night with a dull headache and Harry's heavy arm around his waist. Zayn slipped back into slumber with a smile and a slight roiling in his stomach that could either have been nerves or anticipation. As natural as stirring in the morning and feeling his heart skip when he saw that Harry was already up, standing at the bedroom door with a bird's nest of hair and two steaming mugs of tea.

It still didn't quite feel real. It still felt like a spell, like a movie. And normally that would've terrified Zayn, sent him running straight for the hills, but this time it just felt _right_. Far from what he had expected when he got dressed the morning before, prepared for another confrontation with the police and ideally at least one good picture to justify the shock to his nerves, but so, so much better.

Zayn had never had a lot of close friends, had never been the type to form any sort of new relationship easily. He always thought friends were precious and rare, and these days, that really meant that Zayn spent those handful of moments he wasn't at school or with his family goofing around with Danny and Ant. Other people had come and gone over the years, but the Riach brothers – those two were forever. Zayn was sure of that.

Danny, Ant – and now Harry. Because after Zayn was awake enough to function, Harry led Zayn to the bathroom and dutifully averted his eyes while Zayn showered, even as Harry stood at the sink and performed his own morning rituals. It felt strangely domestic, reminded Zayn of standing at the door and watching as his mother sat on the toilet lid and pulled on her pantyhose while his father shaved and styled his hair. They always reminded Zayn of the Earth and its moon. Zayn almost wondered if he could have that, too, before shoving that thought away.

Harry let Zayn borrow a sweater and shirt and Zayn pulled the articles of clothing on and wondered if he smelled like Harry – like his soap and toothpaste, his tea and his bedroom.

Zayn followed Harry downstairs where three other boys were lounging around in the living room, beer bottles in hand. There were two brunets in addition to Niall, who nodded and smiled wide and lopsided.

“These are my two other roommates, Louis and Liam,” Harry said, pointing to each of the other boys in turn. The one called Louis had ruffled brown hair and playful blue eyes, and was sitting on the floral couch in head-to-toe denim and loafers. His eyes darted up at the sound of Harry's voice and he gave Zayn a very quick once-over before raising a hand and giving a short wave. The other boy – Liam – had shorter hair and friendly brown eyes and was far more primly dressed in a white button-down shirt and blue trousers. “Lou, Li, this is Zayn. I met him at the protest last night.”

“Louis is the delinquent I had to pick up from jail last night after you two went up to bed,” Niall helpfully supplied while both Louis and Liam began to regard Zayn with slightly more interest. Zayn had no way of knowing what their curious eyes meant. “And Liam will one day be a Senator.”

Both boys frowned but neither objected. Zayn was starting to get the distinct impression that everyone just let Niall say whatever he wanted. None of it was mean-spirited and Niall seemed very sweet, so Zayn could understand.

“I was thinking that we could go to that restaurant on 8th?” Harry continued. “The one with the hashbrowns?”

“You trying to show off for lover boy?” Louis asked. Niall elbowed Louis in the ribs and Louis sloshed beer over his hands, making a low, offended noise as he rubbed at his side.

“I'm just hungry,” Harry said, a blush coloring his cheeks. “And I talked it up last night. You don't have to come if you don't want to. I was just being polite.”

“I was going to head down to the office soon,” Liam replied, more than a little apologetic. “Although it is very nice to meet you, Zayn.”

Harry turned to Louis, who sighed, long and put-upon. “I have no interest in watching your _National Geographic_ mating rituals, Styles.”

“I go with you and El to that pancake restaurant all the time – ”

“Because you're stupid,” Louis laughed. “We'll see you both later.”

Harry frowned and turned toward Niall, who grinned at Harry and shrugged, saying, “Just bring him back in one piece so I can check his stitches.”

Harry pouted but he grabbed Zayn's hand and squeezed it, something warm leaping in Zayn's stomach at the sensation. “Let's get out of here, then,” Harry said, throwing his head back and sneering at his friends. Harry pulled Zayn towards the door, and Zayn picked up his camera bag before following Harry outside.

  
  


The diner on 8th was actually quite good.

Harry and Zayn walked there, a half-hour long jaunt, occasionally knocking into each other, but Zayn couldn't be sure whether Harry was doing it on purpose or not. Either way, it was nice, all these little reassurances that Harry was there, wasn't going anywhere.

The restaurant reminded Zayn of one of his favorite places in Alameda, with a long counter, several pastel colored booths, and a jukebox in the corner. It was a Saturday morning so there were already a few people inside, families mostly, out and about and enjoying the weekend. Zayn slid into a booth while Harry meandered over to the jukebox, slinging his arm across the top and arching his back as he perused the selection. The image reminded Zayn of all of those surfer movies Doniya used to like, boys with sun bleached hair and golden skin. Zayn was sure Harry wasn't like that, wasn't a surfer boy who chased waves and lived in a California daydream, but Zayn couldn't shake the image of Harry's smooth back out of his mind.

Harry ambled back over right as he got Marvin Gaye to come on. Zayn bit down on his laugh when Harry did a silly little dance on his way back over to the booth, shimmying his hips and making one of the families in the corner roll their eyes at the spectacle. Harry slid back in the booth across from Zayn, knocking his knee against Zayn's as he moved in. Zayn expected for Harry to pull away once he was settled but he didn't, instead tapped his foot against Zayn's own. Zayn kicked back and the two of them began a raucous game of footsie underneath the table.

“There'll be none of that, boys,” a female voice called and both Harry and Zayn sat up suddenly, the voice reminding Zayn so viscerally of his _Daadi_ that he knew he needed to sit up and behave. The minute he did so, he found himself looking into an older black woman's face, wrinkled with laugh lines around her eyes and mouth, but still effortlessly beautiful. She was tall, too, and wore her hair short and straight around her face. All in all, she was an imposing figure, but the smile on her face let Zayn know immediately that she was just teasing.

“Sorry, Aunt Ada,” Harry mumbled as if he was chided, but he was wearing a shit eating grin on his face. It was clearly all banter. “You know how I get a little restless.”

“Well, don't be dragging your friends into it,” the woman responded. “I mean, look at this young man. I know he don't get into trouble just sitting around the way you do.”

“No, ma'am.” Harry answered promptly, watching Zayn so intensely that Zayn had to fight against a shiver. “Zayn's good.”

“You don't normally bring such handsome young boys along, Harry,” the woman continued. “If I would've known I was gonna run into a real life Prince Charming, I would've put my hair up in rollers last night.”

Harry barked out a laugh and Zayn blushed, ducking his head down so that he could scratch at the back of his neck.

“We just met last night otherwise I would've been sure to give you more warning,” Harry replied. “Aunt Ada, this is my friend, Zayn. Zayn, this is Aunt Ada. She lives in the house next door to ours – the blue one.”

“Nice to meet you, ma'am,” Zayn said, taking Aunt Ada's hand and giving it a firm shake. Zayn's dad had always taught him that, the importance of a nice, firm handshake. Aunt Ada pretended to titter and both Harry and Zayn laughed again.

“It's certainly nice to meet you, too, young man,” Aunt Ada said. “Make sure Harry is good, now. No more cutting classes to sit around with those rascal friends of his. I still haven't forgiven Louis for picking those flowers.”

“Of course,” Zayn answered and Aunt Ada winked at him before making her way out of the diner, throwing her head back and sauntering with a power Zayn wished he could one day master. It really was something – the way some older people could command a room.

“She's not really my Aunt,” Harry said suddenly, startling Zayn a little bit.

“No shit,” Zayn answered, causing Harry to snort while he looked over his menu.

“I mean, she could be! It's possible,” Harry said. “But everyone in the neighborhood calls her that and she insisted that I call her my Aunt, too, 'specially when she found out I was out here in California without my family. She's really nice – she has a nephew who stays with her, but he works nights and isn't around all that much. I've got some of her persimmon jam back at the house. You should try it. I actually forgot that she comes to the diner every weekend to say hi to Mrs. Jefferson.”

Zayn shrugged, trying not to pay too much attention to how pink Harry's lips were as Harry rambled along. Harry really was too pretty for words. Zayn could see how kind old ladies would take him under their wings, try to protect him and make sure he got off to school every morning and got back home at a decent hour every evening. Zayn almost wanted to do the same thing, and he always liked to pretend as though his protective streak only extended as far as his three sisters.

“You know everyone in the neighborhood, then?” Zayn asked. “That's good. I never really did manage the whole getting to know my neighbors thing.”

“Yeah, I mean, I try to be friendly, at least,” Harry answered, smiling when a girl came over to take their order. She did seem to know Harry, too, a pretty brown-skinned girl who pushed at Harry's shoulder playfully and called him a sap when he asked for coffee just as sweet as her. The girl damn near tripped over herself after taking Zayn's order and she kept staring over at their booth once she made her way back behind the counter, blushing every time her and Zayn's eyes locked.

“I don't think I can take you anywhere around here,” Harry complained, looking between the waitress and Zayn with an expression of faux outrage. “All of the ladies don't know what to do around you. I'm getting jealous.”

“Oh, stop it,” Zayn said, looking up and noticing that the waitress was gaping at him again. “There's no reason to be jealous.”

“Why?” Harry asked, tone suddenly switching to something a little more serious. “What – you got a girlfriend or something?”

Zayn pursed his lips and frowned. “No.”

“Then why shouldn't I be jealous? Are you married?”

Zayn shrugged and hoped Harry would leave it. “No. I mean – there's really no reason to be jealous, Harry.”

Harry bit at the inside of his cheek and smiled when the waitress brought over two mugs of steaming hot coffee. Zayn watched as Harry dumped an outrageous amount of milk and sugar into his, stirring the coffee until it was a light brown color.

“So, like, what's your story?” Harry asked. “How is it that a real life Marlon Brando like yourself is just hanging around at anti-war protests?”

Zayn barked out a laugh, taking a sip of his own coffee. “Marlon Brando? Really? That's who you're gonna go with?”

“I'm sure you've seen _A Streetcar Named Desire_!” Harry exclaimed. “He played a brute, but the real Brando is a whole different kind of force of nature. I would almost think it's an honor to be compared to him.”

“It is in its own way, I suppose,” Zayn acknowledged. “But I don't think I look much like him.”

“Not really, but my sister always said he's a dreamboat, and the general consensus seems to be that you are, too. But I would say you've got more of the temperament of a young Montgomery Clift.”

Zayn sighed. “I did love him in _A Place in the Sun_.”

“Those came out the same year, you know,” Harry remarked. “ _Streetcar_ and _A Place In The Sun_. But I'm getting us all distracted. What's your story? You kinda got to hear mine from Niall.”

Zayn lifted his shoulder again, playing with a bit of sugar he had accidentally spilled on the table. “Not a very interesting story, I guess. Moved to California from New York when I was a kid. Grew up around here and then I started up school at Berkeley. Heard about the war and all of the protests through the _Daily Cal_ and just like, being aware, I guess. I started using my photography as an excuse to start going to actions because I didn't want my mom to worry.”

“You and your family,” Harry started, licking at his lips. “Are you all close?”

“Yeah. I've got three sisters. They all live nearby, which is nice. I couldn't imagine living too far away from them.”

“That's really sweet,” Harry said, smiling. “I – I hope we become friends. So I can meet them. They've got to be really groovy, if they're anything like you.”

Zayn blinked at Harry, just kind of taking him in. This weird white boy with long, brown hair and even longer legs. Some guy who helped Zayn out when he got hurt and was now asking for friendship. The type of guy that Zayn probably wouldn't have even looked at twice if Zayn hadn't had his head tore open. And Zayn, he wasn't the type to just leap into new relationships. But Harry – or his personality, really – made Zayn want to. It wasn't about wanting to impress anyone or being reckless or stupid. It was about wanting to make someone happy and Zayn knew right then, sitting across from Harry at some random diner in West Oakland, their legs still resting against each other, that Zayn wanted to make Harry happy.

And Zayn already wanted to make the world a better place because he deserved that – he, and his parents, his sisters, Danny and Ant, and everybody else who had gone through shit because they were poor, because they were different, because of a multitude of interlocking reasons. But now Zayn could add Harry to the list of people the world needed to be better for, because it was obvious that Harry was more complex than first glances could've ever given him credit for. And that was all on Zayn, for assuming that a hippie standing on a street corner wouldn't know the first thing about empathy.

Zayn was terrified but he kicked out at Harry's feet again and it was easy to pretend like he wasn't scared when they were tousling around underneath the booth, playing footsie.

  
  


Zayn and Harry very quickly became inseparable, so much so that even _Danny_ picked up on it, and Danny made it a rule to not get too involved in Zayn's personal business. But it was just hard not to get wrapped up in Harry. Zayn was sure that everyone that ever met Harry was instantly charmed by him – there was just something truly magnetic about his personality. He was warm and sweet and actually kind of funny in a really strange way, quick with puns and naughty jokes.

And beyond that, Harry was _smart_. Very well-read, always with something new in his bag that he was willing to pass Zayn's way. He devoured books and magazines and newspapers and fliers, would hand Zayn things groups were handing out at Merritt College and exclaim over how it reminded him of such-and-such he had already read. Hell, Harry was how Zayn first heard about the Black Panthers, what was then a small group of rebel rousers that originated on Merritt's campus.

Zayn liked Harry. Zayn liked Harry _a lot_. He liked going over to the boys' house, because that's what he called it now, thought of that old yellow house as some sort of playhouse. Zayn liked drinking tea while discussing things he and Harry had both seen on the news. Zayn liked showing Harry negatives from his _Daily Cal_ assignments, liked that Harry sometimes asked Niall to pick up copies of the paper just because he knew one of Zayn's pictures would be featured. Zayn liked bringing his coursework over and helping Harry with his English class – essays on Edgar Allan Poe and the American Romantic Movement.

But maybe most of all, Zayn liked listening to Harry's records. Harry was always picking up albums from the shop on Telegraph – _I Was Made To Love Her_ and _White Rabbit_ , his taste in music as wide-ranging and eclectic as the spread of books across his bedroom floor. Harry idolized The Beatles but also loved The Temptations and The Supremes, owned all of The Monkees' records but could also talk for hours about Stevie Wonder's genius. It was something they both shared in common – a love for four-part harmonies and strumming baselines, for putting something on the record player and dancing horribly about Harry's bedroom, their feet making soft padding noises against Harry's hardwood floors. And once Harry learned how much Zayn loved Motown he made a point of picking up records just for Zayn – Smokey Robinson & the Miracles one week, then Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell the next. Harry would always put the records on with a grin, urging Zayn onto his feet and laughing wide and pure when he began doing The Twist, biting at his lips when Zayn begrudgingly joined him.

Zayn really liked Harry. And sometimes Zayn hoped that Harry really liked him, too.

  
  


It was December and Zayn was spending the night at the boys' house again. These days, Zayn spent more nights here than he did at his own apartment, even had a special bag that he packed when he knew he would be spending a few days with Harry and the others. It was nice, even the fact that he and Harry were still sharing the same tiny twin sized bed. Zayn knew he could claim the couch now, had offered more than once, even, but Harry always pulled a face and insisted that it was no big deal to share and that the couch was really awful to sleep on anyway. Zayn could roll with that, even when Zayn sometimes woke up in the middle of the night and knew that Harry was awake too, warm and hard against Zayn's leg. Zayn always screwed his eyes shut and kept his breath even as Harry got up, padding across the room and opening the door so quietly Zayn could almost believe that it was all a part of a dream. All wishful nighttime thinking to hope that maybe one day Harry would do something about his morning wood, roll Zayn over and climb on top of him, all heat and long legs as Harry pressed his lips to Zayn's.

But it was December and they were getting ready for bed – chipped mugs of cold tea scattered across the floor, both boys sweaty and exhausted from an impromptu dance party to Aretha Franklin. Harry was throwing off his jeans and he almost pulled his underwear off, too, as he was shoving the legs down. Zayn caught an eyeful – thick, brown pubic hair and the crease of Harry's thigh, the skin creamy white and begging for bruises, but then Harry was yanking his briefs back up, his eyes latching onto Zayn's and almost pinning him there.

Zayn felt found out in the worst possible way. And there it was again – that weird spell between the two of them. Zayn wasn't able to look away.

Harry gulped and he was holding onto his briefs as he made his way over to the bed, sitting so far away at the foot of it that Zayn knew that he had done something wrong.

It was a few moments before Harry said anything, but when he did, it wasn't to tell Zayn to leave. “That time when you first met me – you know Niall wasn't lying, right?”

Zayn frowned, leaning back against Harry's bedsheets, utterly confused. “What're you on about?”

“Niall said I got kicked out of the house,” Harry explained, eyes drifting down to regard his own hands. His fingers were twitching, and Harry was always moving, always _go_ , _go_ , _go_ , but this was different. He was nervous and Zayn didn't like it, hated the thought that he had caused Harry to feel uncomfortable in any way. “And I had been. For _this_.”

Zayn could hear one of the other boys puttering around downstairs – Liam, maybe – and the soft sound of running water. A screen door slamming somewhere in the neighborhood. The breeze kept rattling Harry's windows, too. The whole house was drafty, really, old thing that it was, with its wide porch and big bedrooms. Big rooms, except for Harry's. Harry's room was tiny, cozy. Harry had once said that he thought it was supposed to be a servant's room or something. “What?”

“My step-dad came home, right?” Harry licked his lips, and even though Zayn knew Harry was right there, just at the end of the bed, Zayn also knew that Harry was _gone_ , back in Chicago '63. Not that long ago, but also a lifetime away considering how much things had changed since – a war and a March on Washington. “My step-dad worked for the City Council. You know how the Democratic machine is in those sort of cities – it's all about appearances. Knowing the right people, living in Gold Coast, getting the votes and doing it all again. Cyclical phony bullshit. My best friend was named William. We went to the same prep school, went to the same church. William and I used to hang out in my room every day after school, and one day my step-dad came home early. We definitely weren't expecting it – he wasn't the type to be home at 4PM. He didn't catch us doing anything, really, but. It was obvious what we _had_ been up to. What we had been doing every single day after school for the whole year.”

Zayn blinked. Whatever he had been expecting – well. This story wasn't it. “Okay.”

“So my step-dad told me William was not to come over to the house again, and that he was going to arrange for me to go away for a little while to sort things out. I decided to one-up him and just left. I wasn't sure where to go but I'd never been to California and I knew they made movies here. I didn't realize that they made movies in Southern California, not San Francisco.” Harry looked down at his hands, working his jaw slowly. “My mom still sends me money every so often – I don't think my step-dad knows about it, but she does. And my dad, he lives in Los Angeles these days, says I'm welcome with him anytime, but I don't wanna be a burden. I'm _fine_ – I got things figured out now for the most part, and I don't need my parents anymore. Things aren't as bad as they could be – as they used to be. But I am, like. I do like boys. And I just. I thought you should know. Because you're my friend, now, or at least I hope you are. And I, well. You should know.”

Zayn heard it even though Harry wasn't saying it – “ _Now you know, and this is your out, if you wanna take it._ ”

Zayn shrugged. “I mean – I don't care.”

Harry looked up abruptly and the hesitant hopefulness in his eyes almost made Zayn's heart break. “You don't?”

“Why would I?” Zayn asked, plucking at a string dangling from his sweater. “It ain't. I mean. Not like I could judge.”

“What d'you mean?”

Zayn shrugged again, deliberately avoiding meeting Harry's eyes even as his tongue formed around some of the bravest words he'd ever uttered. “I dunno. But like. I've wondered. Thought about it. Just. Sometimes.” All the time, but Zayn wasn't courageous enough to say that quite yet.

Zayn could tell that Harry wanted to push, but was holding back on being too insistent should the spell break, this fragile little moment shattering into thousands of tiny fragments. Harry was so tentative, and Zayn found it unnerving compared to the brash, charming personality Harry showed to the rest of the world. Zayn couldn't help but wonder what other secrets Harry hid about himself, who the real boy was and if Zayn would get to learn everything about that guy, too. “Thought about what?”

Zayn felt like a coward but he continued looking at the loose string when he answered, “'Bout you.”

Zayn _had_ thought about it. What Harry's lips tasted like when they were slick with tea or twisted up in a smile. What it would be like to press his mouth to Harry's neck and breathe him in. What it would be like to bring his hands to Harry's hardness in the morning and touch and touch and touch.

Harry bit his lip and jutted his chin out. Zayn gave himself a moment to indulge, let his eyes trace the veins along Harry's neck. “Thoughts like what?”

“I – I dunno. I really like this – spending time with you. Like spending time with all of the boys. Just especially with you. Talking about the news and listening to The Temptations. But sometimes I even – sometimes I want to touch you, maybe.”

Harry went suddenly still and it was so different to how he had been buzzing before. “Touch me how?”

“However you wanted me to.”

Harry gulped. “I've thought about you. Every single day since I've met you. Maybe before we met, even.”

“Yeah? Like how?”

“Like, I don't even know,” Harry said. “I've never. I just.”

“Like that?” Zayn teased. “Can't even put it into words?”

“There _aren't_ words,” Harry answered, mildly affronted but exceedingly earnest. “But I'm not educated like the way you are. Fucking drop-out, yeah? And I'm gonna be at Merritt for-fucking-ever. My mind – I can't quote Shakespeare to you, but I'll tell you about movies, about songs. And it's just – when I first saw you sitting there on the curb I felt like Natalie Wood the first time she saw Tony.”

“In fucking _West Side Story_?” Zayn laughed. “You felt like Natalie Wood and not like Richard Beymar?”

“No, I didn't feel like Tony,” Harry said. “I felt like Maria and that's okay, because you could've said anything to me and I would've done it. You could've said _anything_ except tell me to leave, and I would've done it.”

Zayn shook his head in disbelief. “You're a fool.”

“I'm fine with that,” Harry answered. “Everybody always said I was too romantic. My mom used to say it too – told me to get my head outta the clouds every once in a while, that someone was bound to let me down because I was living far too high. So I'm a fool, I'll take it. I will, Zayn.”

“You know what? You sound like that guy in _It's A Wonderful Life_.”

“James Stewart's character?” Harry asked, grinning around every word that spilled from his lips. “'You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down.'” Harry crawled up the length of the mattress and turned to Zayn. “I saw that movie so many times when they would play it at the drive-in. But it's true, you know. I'd get the moon for you. It's really a great idea.”

“We just met, Harry,” Zayn said delicately. “Like, we've only known each other for two months and five minutes ago you were afraid I was gonna – I dunno. Kick you out of your own house.”

“But you've been thinking about me,” Harry said. “You've been thinking about me, and now you know that I've been thinking about you. Since before we even met, I've wanted you. That's why I knew when I saw you hurt that I needed to stop. Just like in a movie.”

Zayn smiled wryly, feeling cynical all of a sudden. “And it's that easy?”

Harry nodded. “It should be. People try to make it hard, but I've gotta believe it's that easy. It's everything else about this damn world that's hard.”

Harry said it so simply, so confidently – Zayn couldn't help but believe it, too, felt himself mirroring Harry's nod until Harry was right there, wide, green eyes and warm hands gripping Zayn's waist. And it wasn't like Harry had never touched Zayn before, but this was different. Not knocks of shoulders or playing footsie underneath a diner table, but sure, strong. With purpose.

Zayn felt small underneath the spread of Harry's fingers, breakable. Everything about Harry made Zayn feel strikingly mortal and brittle, but maybe that was the point of meeting someone like this. Trusting that they wouldn't hurt you because the whole rest of the world already had that power, the ability to break you down and wear at your bones. Maybe that was the whole point, and that was both amazing and terrifying.

It wasn't love – Zayn knew that. They had just met and they were confessing secrets to each other in an old house in a beaten-down neighborhood, but it wasn't love. Not quite yet. But maybe it could be.

“I've never – ” Zayn started.

“S'alright,” Harry interrupted. “I've got you. But we don't even have to.”

“I want to.”

“Yeah?” Harry licked over his lips and Zayn bit his own, causing Harry to inhale sharply. “Yeah, okay. All right. Lemme just put a record on – don't want Liam to hear.” Zayn nodded and Harry climbed over Zayn to get off the bed, locking the door before turning to the record player sitting on top of his dresser. “Dad actually got me this Dansette,” Harry said conversationally, loading up a series of records. Zayn didn't comment on the way Harry's hands shook expectantly. Nothing had even happened, really, and they were both so wound up, breathless. “Sent it up here for my birthday last year.”

“Your Dad sounds like a great guy.”

“He is,” Harry answered. “Haven't seem him in a while, though. Should drive down.”

“You should. That could be a lot of fun. Hang out at the beach, y'know?”

“Be more fun if we can find a time to go together,” Harry mumbled, grinning over his shoulder as the music started up. Zayn laughed as he recognized the tune, humming along with the starting horns.

“Frankie Valli?” Zayn asked. “You trying to set the mood?”

“Is it working?” Harry countered, crouching down on the side of the bed and tilting his head to the side. “I thought of it the first time I saw you. That isn't too corny, is it?”

It should've been, but Zayn just felt touched, hoped he wasn't blushing too hard. “No,” Zayn replied softly.

“What about you?”

“What about me what?”

“What song did you hear when you first saw me?”

“Couldn't see you too well when we first met, 'cause of getting hit in the head and all,” Zayn pointed out. “Wasn't really thinking about much of anything.”

“After, then,” Harry said with a sly smile. He was so effortlessly beautiful. Zayn felt stupid for thinking he could ever fight against it, for thinking they could ever be _just friends_. “When you were lying here in my bed.”

“What song was I thinking of?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Every important moment's gotta have a song. Like your own musical. Your own _West Side Story_.”

Zayn paused, leaning back against Harry's pillows and thinking. It all hit Zayn at once, the chords wafting through the autumn air from Harry's open window, a girl's voice singing along. Zayn had assumed it was a delirious dream the morning after, but now he knew that he actually  _did_ hear it, the girl from across the way singing along to the radio, maybe even with a hairbrush or broom in hand, as he and Harry crammed themselves into bed, Harry's body feverishly warm next to his own. Zayn sang the chorus without even thinking about it – “ _I remember mama said you can't hurry love_ , _no, you just have to wait_ – ”

“ – _She said love don't come easy, it's a game of give and take_ ,” Harry joined in. “I love that song. Liam does too – ask him to sing for you sometime. Although maybe I should say he needs to listen to you. You've got a gorgeous voice.”

“You too,” Zayn breathed. “And a really gorgeous face.”

“You're full of shit.”

“Mean it,” Zayn answered. “Always thought you were more of a Marlon Brando than me. Or maybe a Jim Morrison? You've got the hair. But you picked a good song for me, I like Frankie Valli. _Oh, pretty baby, now that I found you, stay_ – ”

“You know, I will accept Jim Morrison if you stop singing,” Harry begged. “You're too good. Everything about you is too good.”

“Make me stop,” Zayn replied, eyes ducking to memorize the bow of Harry's lips. His face was so close, his mouth so pink. It was almost like a movie.

Harry licked over his lips absentmindedly, tilting his head to the side. “Yeah?”

“You said it was that easy.”

“It is,” Harry acknowledged, and he pressed forward, Frankie Valli's voice trailing off into the night as he brought his lips to finally, _finally_ meet Zayn's.

  
  


They were up in the middle of the night, afterward. After trailing fingertips and licking skin, after gasping names and biting bruises into thighs. The entire house was still and in the distance Zayn could hear a train rattling along some tracks. They were both nude and Zayn was smoking a joint he had bummed off Danny before coming over to the boys' house, the smoke swirling up to the ceiling. Harry was watching Zayn's mouth, running his hands along Zayn's bare thigh and scratching at the hairs on the inside of Zayn's leg. Zayn kept catching Harry's eyes and giggling, felt like some sort of giddy schoolgirl, really, even as Harry sat up, cock still heavy and thick between his legs.

“One-for-one. I tell you a secret and you tell me one.” Harry's eyes were so green, even in the dark like this. “We won't – we won't judge each other. We both promise that whatever we say, nothing changes. We just understand each other better. How about that?”

Zayn nodded. Everything seemed so solemn and important sat atop Harry's comforters, tucked together in a too-small bed. He rubbed his free hand over Harry's reassuringly before resting it against Harry's chest, could feel the _pum-pum_ of Harry's steady heartbeat. “All right then. Do you want me to go first?”

“No,” Harry said, licking his lips. “It was my idea. Okay. First secret. When I was twelve, I stole an Abba Zaba bar and got away with it.”

Zayn snickered, taking another puff of his joint. “Um. All right. So when I used to live in Queens I would sneak out in the middle of the night and just ride the trains. My family never found out – I would always be back home in time for school.”

“You know, when I first met you I would've bet good money that you were from California.”

“Nope,” Zayn said, popping the “P” while Harry brushed his hands over Zayn's cock, wrapping his fist around Zayn and stroking once, sure and tight. Zayn's breath stuttered, sensitive from all they had gotten up to earlier, and he glanced over at Harry, who smiled innocently before squeezing the head of Zayn's dick, a bead of precome blurting from the tip.

“I was so scared when I first came to California,” Harry continued. “Before I met Louis.”

“You didn't like,” Zayn started then stopped. It was kind of a weird thing to ask Harry when Harry's hand was wrapped around him like this.

“God no,” Harry answered. “He's like my big brother. What about you and your roommate?”

“Danny? _No_.”

Harry snickered before his face reassembled into something harder, a little less open. “Um. When I first came out here, I had nowhere to go. Nowhere to even live, really. But port cities – there's always a lot of people around. Some people with money. I let this old guy take me around sometimes.” Harry ducked his eyes. “I – I feel like you should know? But I also don't want you to think I'm trash.”

“I don't,” Zayn answered, voice just as low. There it was again – that curtain that seemed to fall over them sometimes, separating them from the ugliness of the rest of the world, although Zayn would've preferred that Harry's hand wasn't on his dick while they were having this conversation. But Zayn got it on some level, understood that Harry was trying to distract himself. “I could never. Even if you had to do something you didn't really have any choice about.”

Harry hummed noncommittally even as he continued to stroke Zayn slow, Zayn having to stop himself from pushing into the circle of Harry's fist. “Louis found me at some dive bar,” Harry continued. “I forget what he said to me – some shit about changing the world. Louis was _always_ talking about changing the world. But I believed him. Believed that if anyone could change the world, this Louis guy could, and so I went back to his house. And I came onto him a little bit – just sort of assumed that's what he was after. Louis laughed at me and said there wouldn't be need for any of that after we dismantled capitalism.”

Zayn laughed but it came out strangled, more of a moan than anything. He was already closer than he would like to admit. “It was that simple? You're such a beautiful idealist, Styles.”

“And you aren't?” Harry asked, bringing his fingers up to his mouth and licking them before returning to his earlier stroke. It had been so good earlier, grinding up against each other, Harry's hands on Zayn's waist, pressing half-crescents into his skin and whispering about how he wanted to taste Zayn for real. But this was good, too. “You're the one who takes pictures everywhere, carrying that Nikon like one image is gonna change everything.”

“It could.” It already had. Zayn could remember pictures that had changed his life – photographs of the Greensboro Four sitting at a whites-only counter, shoulders back and proud, demanding to be seen and acknowledged. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. standing in front of a massive throng in Washington, DC during the Freedom March, arms outstretched as though anything really was possible. Hell, Zayn was still in awe of that photo he had first seen a few months ago, a protestor placing carnations into the barrel of a rifle. The world was so complicated but photography had a way of making everything suddenly, shockingly simple, this crazy world startling clear even in black and white.

Harry ran his nose along Zayn's neck, nuzzling him and almost purring. Harry was complicated, too, but sitting in this room together, Zayn could pretend as though Harry wasn't. Could pretend as though Harry was as easy and simple in Zayn's hands as his Nikon. “I know,” Harry answered dreamily, bringing his free hand to drag over Zayn's stomach. “I've always wanted to go to Cuba,” Harry continued, scratching at the hairs along Zayn's abdomen. “My dad used to do some work out there before the Revolution, but I've never been.”

“Yeah?” Zayn asked, reaching out and twirling a bit of Harry's hair around his finger. Harry's hand still felt so good against his cock, enough pressure to be amazing but not quite enough to get off again. “That why you're growing your hair out so long? Fashion yourself a Midwestern Che Guevara?”

Harry let his nails trace along Zayn's slit, Zayn hissing at the contact. “If I had half the balls of Che, I'd already be out there – somewhere. Doing something.”

“If you were Che, you'd be buried in some shallow grave,” Zayn retorted, although it wasn't really all that biting, not with how breathless Harry was making him.

Harry pulled a face, something fleeting and hard that Zayn couldn't quite read, before twisting around and throwing his upper half on top of Zayn's chest, letting go of Zayn's cock so it slapped against his tummy wetly. “You think he's dead then?” Harry asked, mouth set in a hard line. “Like, really. Actually dead this time?”

“The Bolivians said they got him,” Zayn answered, sighing in relief when Harry decided to slide his hands down Zayn's sides again, pressing his fingertips against Zayn's hip. “Nobody else seems to know where the fuck he is.” Zayn tugged at Harry's hair, smiling down at Harry's responding frown. “And so dies another revolutionary.”

“You say it so blasé, though,” Harry answered. “Like – like Che isn't a fucking hero.”

“Dunno if anyone's ever told you, but heroes die. Like that's what they tend to do after a while. Achilles and Julius Caesar and all those other white guys. Abraham Lincoln is dead, too, sorry if that spoils anything for you.”

Harry sighed, wrapping his limbs, octopus-like, around Zayn. “Che's not  _just_ some white guy. And heroes don't get shot down in the jungle like dogs.”

“Shit happens,” Zayn answered with a small, sad shrug. “Things happen. Heroes die, but the revolution lives on.”

Harry hummed, his fingers continuing to skitter across Zayn's hip, and Zayn closed his eyes, relaxing into the press of Harry's palms and the melodic fall of raindrops as they began to patter against Harry's closed window. Harry resumed his earlier stroke and Zayn threw his head back, feeling loved and taken care of and all of those sappy things he used to cackle over when he would read excerpts from his mom's paperbacks.

“I've got another secret,” Zayn mumbled, putting his hand over Harry's and stilling him. “Or maybe it's not a secret. Maybe it's a question?”

Harry glanced up at Zayn, his eyes hazy with arousal and his mouth half-open. Zayn could feel Harry's hardness against his thigh, wanted to know what it would feel like in his mouth. Hell, Zayn wanted to give Harry the whole fucking world and didn't even know where to begin with the task. Figured taking to the streets again and working to make sure society was better might be a good start. “ _Hey_.”

“Hey,” Zayn answered. He was so nervous. “I don't know how this works. But like. Can we _do_ _this_? Can we make this real?”

Harry grinned at Zayn, leaning forward and pressing his lips against Zayn's. When he pulled back, he was still close enough that Zayn could feel Harry's lips move against his own. “I thought we already were.”

  
  


Harry offered to accompany Zayn back to his apartment the next day to pick up some of Zayn's books, film for Zayn's Nikon, and more spare clothes, so they walked downtown before taking a bus into Berkeley. It was simultaneously nice and torturous being on the bus together, the two of them subconsciously swaying into each other's space and smiling whenever they caught the other stealing a glance, but they were utterly unable to do anything about the itch underneath their skins to grab, to grope, to kiss. Zayn hated it because he had convinced himself that Harry deserved to be kissed every moment of every day. Harry was that beautiful and Zayn was that enamored.

Zayn lived a few blocks away from campus in a cheap apartment building ostensibly for students. He and Danny had a two-bedroom spot on the third floor with a door that always stuck and a ceiling that leaked sometimes when it rained. But it was their own little hellhole – Zayn paying for his half of the rent with part of his student scholarship, and Danny taking on a few shifts at a sandwich shop every so often. It was an awful apartment but it was preferable to a tour in Vietnam, something that Zayn reminded himself anytime there was a storm about to come through the Bay Area.

“How nice of you to show your face,” Danny said the minute Zayn let Harry and himself into the apartment. It honestly had felt like forever since the last time Zayn had even been in at the same time as Danny, but it wasn't like anything had changed. The apartment was still offensively dirty, dishes piled up in the sink and their coursework strewn everyone, and Danny was still sitting on their old, beat up sofa, twiddling his fingers through his hair with his feet kicked up on the coffee table. Zayn tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter and tried to ignore the soft frown that flitted across Harry's face.

“I told you I was probably going to be away for a few days,” Zayn remarked. “And hello to you, too.”

“You know I miss hearing your dulcet tones,” Danny answered, sneering at Zayn over the tattered copy of  _ The Communist Manifesto _ he'd taken to reading and cursing over in his spare time. Danny was probably one of the top ten smartest people Zayn had ever met, but he was legitimately incapable of reading something without swearing at it. A lot. He said it helped him process large amounts of information at a time, even though it used to drive Mrs. Riach mad when he and Zayn were doing homework at the kitchen table. Danny turned a page in his book, mouth curled around what was most certainly a swear word, before he glanced up and saw Harry. “Who're you?”

“Harry Styles,” Harry answered promptly. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Harry Styles – the boy Zayn met at the protest Harry Styles?” Harry nodded, making his way across the room to shake Danny's hand. Danny's eyes drifted from Harry to Zayn and then back again before a sly smile bloomed across his face like he had just figured something out. “Are ya'll fucking?” Zayn and Harry both sputtered and Danny put his book down on his knee, worn spine up, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Ya'll dating too, then, right? Doing it proper? Or is it just strictly business?”

“You're just – you're okay with this?” Zayn wheezed.

“C'mon, Zayn. Why  _ wouldn't _ I be okay with it? Aren't you the one always going on about how we need to destroy the system? Dismantle the racist capitalist bourgeois and implement a new world order?”

“Not everyone feels that way about queer boys, though,” Harry answered. “I mean, just look at communist Cuba.”

“I'm not everyone and I'm certainly not Fidel Castro,” Danny said with a pout. “I've known about Zayn for ages – don't make that face, Zed, I'm not stupid – but honestly, the fuck should I care? Is that how come you got outta the draft, though? Just threw the whole trifecta at them – 'I'm going to school! I fuck boys! I'm blind as shit!' You could've told me! I woulda backed you up, said I was fucking you every other day in the showers at the gym.”

“Danny, c'mon,” Zayn groaned. “Please. Don't ever say some shit like that again.”

“I'm supportive,” Danny retorted, grabbing his book from his knee. “I'm the best friend you've ever had. So, are you only here to swap out clothes?”

“Yeah, and pick up my books,” Zayn said. “Are you going to do any laundry soon?”

Danny snorted and Zayn sighed, knowing exactly what that meant. Danny was the worst sometimes, but it wasn't like Zayn had any plans to do laundry either.

“You can bring your dirty clothes and we can stop by the laundromat tomorrow,” Harry said softly, probably so that Danny wouldn't hear. “I mean – if you want?”

Zayn bit at his lip and tried to fight against the urge to kiss Harry again. “Yeah. That'd be nice.”

“Oh my God,” Danny yelled obnoxiously. “You two are adorable. I can't wait for your show to come on right after  _ I Dream of Jeannie _ .”

“Shut up,” Zayn muttered. “I'll just go grab my things?”

“Yeah, I'll sit here next to Danny,” Harry said, already making his way over to the couch. Zayn nodded before turning and walking down the hallway, pushing through to his bedroom, which honestly looked even worse than he remembered. Zayn sighed and dug out an old luggage bag from underneath the bed, putting dirty and questionable items of clothing into it.

Zayn was still mindlessly throwing clothes into his bag when he first began to hear bits and pieces of Danny and Harry's conversation. Zayn had always forgotten how thin these apartment walls were, even though he had overheard Danny with girls plenty of times. This was different, though, nothing like hearing a girl moaning loud and unabashed like there weren't any other people around.

“ – pretends like he isn't sensitive, but he is,” Zayn could hear Danny saying. “And I still volunteer at the gym. I don't want to threaten you, but Zayn's like my little brother. I would think this is kind of standard.”

“I won't hurt him.”

“Damn sure you fucking won't.” And Danny uttered the words like a growl so Zayn knew he was being serious.

“No, you don't get it.”

Zayn threw one of his jackets into the bag and just stood there, holding his breath so he could hear Harry better, wanting to hear Harry like if he were standing in the living room with them.

“He's really special, Danny. We were talking about it, and I've never really worked out my feelings on fate and destiny, but like, being with him, I do feel like there's something almost fateful about the way we met. That doesn't sound dumb, does it?”

There was a long moment where Zayn would've killed to see the look on both of their faces – they were both just so quiet. Zayn's best friend and his Harry. He liked to think he knew both of them so well but he really didn't know how they were regarding each other right now. But it wasn't his moment – it was theirs.

But finally Danny spoke again, and his voice was so low that Zayn actually had to press his ear against the wall in order to hear. “No, kid. That doesn't sound dumb at all.”

And Zayn finally let himself breathe again.

  
  


The more time Zayn spent over at the boys' house, the more Zayn got to know all of the guys, in addition to spending one-on-one time with Harry. It felt a little bit like meeting the in-laws, really, but Zayn found that he didn't mind, loved hanging out with this crazy ragtag of boys, sneaking pictures with his Nikon and enjoying the chaos.

Niall was always a laugh, warm, bubbly, and always cackling as he banged about the house. He did get suddenly quiet at times, pensive and distant, eyes glazed over as though he was elsewhere entirely. But Zayn found that he was very fond of Niall, wanted to protect Niall from harm even though he was sure that Niall had seem more from the world than anyone else.

Liam was very nice, too. He wasn't in the house much – Harry said that Liam took his studies very seriously and spent a fair amount of time in the library – but whenever he and Zayn talked, they had very good conversations. Zayn would admit that his first impression of Liam was that he was fairly conservative, but Liam actually was a radical dressed up in a suit and tie. Zayn thought it was refreshing to know that people like Liam even existed.

Louis though – Louis was _something else_. Harry was the baby in the house at nineteen, and Liam and Niall were both a little older at twenty. Zayn's birthday was around the corner in January, and then he'd be turning twenty-two. Louis was a little bit older, though, would be turning twenty-three at the end of the month, and even though he was only a year and some change older, Zayn couldn't help but think Louis was so much worldlier. A Stanford graduate who had worked with SNCC in their heyday, helped organize the Freedom Ballot and was now involved in just about any action going on in the Bay Area. He also wasn't in the house a whole lot, but whenever he was, he was a legitimate riot – bringing in Cuban cigars and Belgian beer that he'd picked up from who knows where, reeking of weed and sweat. There was just something wild about him, from the way his hair always seemed to be in disarray and his penchant for wearing denim on denim outfits.

And that's how Louis looked a week and some days away from Christmas, wearing denim on denim and playing with a lighter he'd gleefully told Zayn and Harry that he'd nicked from Lucky's. That was another thing about Louis – he was always stealing shit from the supermarket. Lighters, packs of cigarettes, whole fucking rolls of bread. Zayn would never understand how he was able to do it, but Louis insisted that it was an art he had practiced extensively over the years.

Zayn was sitting on the floral couch, a roll-up in hand, with Harry sprawled across his lap. Louis was on the floor beside them. They had been talking about _Guess Who's Coming to Dinner_ , which Zayn and Harry had seen in the cinema a few days prior, which then turned into a larger discussion about race relations. One of the Black Panthers' founders – Huey Newton – had been charged with murdering an Oakland police officer, and Zayn had already seen a few demonstrations on campus of people agitating for Huey's release.

“It's fucking ridiculous is what it is,” Louis said, brandishing his arms about as he spoke. That was something he did fairly frequently, Zayn noticed. He gesticulated a lot, sometimes even knocking things over in his earnestness. It reminded Zayn of his _Daadi_ and the way she would accentuate some of her words with loud slaps against the palm of her hand. “Newton comes away from the deal with bullets in his gut but they still had the audacity to handcuff him to his own hospital bed. It's barbaric. This whole fucking country is fucked-up, based on fucking barbarism.”

Harry snickered and Zayn peered down at him, confused as to why Harry was giggling. “I mean, I totally agree with you there,” Zayn said, taking a hit from the roll-up before continuing. “How is it that you are so angry though? Like – no offense, man, but I don't think I've ever met someone so generally enraged with the system. And you're fucking  _white_ .”

Louis laughed, gesturing for Zayn to pass over the roll-up. Zayn did so before carding his fingers through Harry's curls. Harry leaned into Zayn's touch, smiling up at Zayn, grin so blinding and trusting that Zayn felt something warm swell in his chest. It took everything in his power not to kiss Harry right then, press the length of Harry up against the couch cushions and reacquaint himself to the taste of Harry's tongue, the heat of his skin.

“You don't have to worry about me, man,” Louis said, interrupting Zayn's thoughts and smiling wryly. “Like if you wanna kiss him or whatever it is you're thinking about so hard. Harry told me about you two. That you're together or whatever.”

Zayn raised an eyebrow at Harry, who did at least have the modesty to look a little abashed. “Lou's like my big brother,” Harry replied. “I couldn't  _not_ tell him. I've told all the boys.”

“And that's part one of why I'm angry at the world in general and our American society more specifically,” Louis said. “Because who the hell cares, really? If Harry thinks you're good people and worth the fucking time and effort, who am I to say otherwise? We all know tons of queer people, really. Like I'm pretty sure my grandma is actually a lesbian.”

“You really shouldn't get Lou started on these things,” Harry whispered loudly. “Once he does, he never stops.”

“Ha, you're so funny, _Harold_ ,” Louis retorted, hitting the roll-up for a protracted moment and then finally exhaling the smoke with a satisfied hum. “But man, it doesn't take a fucking rocket scientist to know that the world is shit. I'm not – I'm angry because I exist. I'm angry because I can fucking see – I'm not walking around with blinders on like the rest of the suits out there, Liam excluded, of course. I'm angry because I've always been angry but now I _know_ why I am – know that it's because of this fucked up system with all of the cards stacked against me, and I'm not even – I'm just _poor_. I'm not brown like you, or queer like Harry – or like the both of you, I guess. But, like, growing up, I knew I was fucking white trash. Nobody ever let me forget it. Louis Tomlinson, with his whore mother, all of his siblings have different daddies. And so I was angry. Then, I somehow tricked my way into making people think I was smart and I actually got into Stanford of all fucking places. And everyone gave me a dickishly hard time for being there – all these fucking suits-in-training who thought they deserved an education over me, all these phony little rich kids. And so I was angry. And then I met Michaela Brooks – she was affiliated with SNCC and she was so nice and so very, very smart. And being with SNCC – all of it gave me a purpose, yeah? For a little while I could pretend as though I wasn't _just_ angry anymore. Like I was working towards something bigger, channeling my endless frustration with the world towards something that was actually productive. But then one day I tried to take Michaela home to my family, to my mom – the same lady I used to throw rocks on behalf of, the same lady who used to be the subject of all of the taunts on the playground – and she threw a fucking fit because the love of my life happened to be a Negro.”

Zayn felt something click. “But you have a girlfriend, don't you? I remember you all talking about her. Eleanor – ?”

“Eleanor's great,” Louis said hastily, taking another quick hit off the roll-up before handing it to Harry, who held it in between large fingers against his chest before taking a small puff. “I like her lots. I've told her everything, but like – ”

“Eleanor's got her own baggage,” Harry interrupted delicately. “She doesn't fault Louis for having his, too.”

Louis sighed. “That's a really nice way of putting it, Styles.”

“I just wish you wouldn't keep beating yourself up over everything that went wrong with Michaela,” Harry continued. “You were only eighteen then. You were young and you were stupid and made the worst mistake. You wouldn't do the same thing to someone now.”

Louis shrugged but he looked far from convinced. Zayn had the distinct impression that this was a conversation the two of them had over and over, drunk and sober, hushed together at night and under the unforgiving light of day. The words were almost hallow, now. Lines they had memorized and couldn't even deliver with feeling anymore.

“I don't know, Haz,” Louis said, playing with the sleeve of his jacket. “I mean – obviously I wouldn't. But that doesn't change the reality of what I already did.” Louis pursed his lips, an ugly scowl dancing across his face as he focused in on Zayn. “I mean, if there was anything I learned from being with Michaela, it's that life isn't all sex and hanging out in cafes. Just because you don't wanna see it doesn't mean the ugliness in this goddamn world isn't still there. I honestly didn't need to go to Vietnam to see war, to see how fucking brutal the United States can be. I saw it here – with SNCC, and then at home with Michaela. Not even in our own country's backyard, but in the actual living room. The way that people hide who they really are behind closed doors. And I realized I couldn't just stand around and let shit like that happen. _Fuck that_.”

Louis' words almost seemed to hang in the space between them. It struck Zayn then – how different all of their lives were up until this point but how all three of them had reached the same exact fucking conclusion. That the society they had been born into – watching  _Leave it to Beaver_ on primetime while war raged in the Third World and black bodies were strung up on Southern trees – all of it was just so fucked up and they needed to do something about it. That they needed to take to the streets and take pictures and participate in Freedom Rides and get people to vote because something had to give. There were so many different ways to go about it, so many avenues that would lead toward making change real. But at the end of the day, the work they were doing, it was a compulsion – not a choice. 

“I wanna go for a walk,” Harry announced, pushing himself off the couch and handing the remainder of the roll-up to Louis. High like this, Harry was loose and affectionate, Zayn's favorite boy of all time. “Zayn?”

“Yeah,” Zayn agreed and he let Harry haul him off the couch and lead him outside.

  
  


Their feet somehow led them to DeFremery Park. Some of the neighborhood kids were out playing a large and very energetic game of tag and a few of them waved at Harry as the two of them walked by. Harry returned each wave with one of his own and a warm smile. Zayn kinda wished he had the foresight to bring along his camera, was regretting that he hadn't thought to grab his Nikon and snap photos of Harry's smiling face and the children's thumping shoes.

“You're really popular in the neighborhood,” Zayn remarked, settling on the park grass and frowning at the dampness soaking through his jeans. It had been raining off and on all week but Zayn had kind of forgotten what that really meant in practical terms. “I always forget until I see it.”

“Had to work at it,” Harry answered as he plopped down next to Zayn. “But the old lady who lives next to us – Aunt Ada, you remember her – she knows everybody in the neighborhood. She's lived here since the '40s, used to work at one of the canneries in the Fruitvale. Anyway, she asked me to help out with her garden in the back in exchange for some of her famous persimmon jam and that's how I eventually got to meet everyone else. Aunt Ada's super intuitive like that – knew that putting me to work would be a good way to ease me into talking to everyone who stopped by her house.”

Zayn hummed, knocking his knee against Harry's. “It's kinda cool that you live where you do,” Zayn remarked. “Don't know too many white boys who would make the choice to live in West Oakland.”

Harry frowned. “I'm not – I'm not like that, though. I'm not just some rich white boy who decided to play pauper. You know that.”

Zayn cut his eyes to look at Harry and his cheeks had gone red with something more than just cold. Zayn felt more than a little admonished, had already completely forgotten about what Harry had said. About being a kid alone in a port town with only one real asset available to help him make it through the day. Harry was right – he wasn't a rich boy playing at being poor. If he was, he would've run back home  _years_ ago, the moment things got hard. Zayn nodded, cracked his knuckles a little bit and said, “I'm sorry.”

“I just – ” Harry huffed out a frustrated breath and kicked his legs out against the grass, smiling a little when one of the neighborhood boys came darting past. “I feel like a lot of people think I'm just playing at being a hippie. Even Louis says it sometimes, says I'm just pretending to be a revolutionary and that when I'm done I'll go down to LA to work with my dad. It isn't fair. Like, I could never say something like that to _him_.”

“I think he's just angry in general,” Zayn remarked, reaching over to run his hands over Harry's knuckles. They were in public, couldn't quite touch the way Zayn wanted to, but Zayn would take the little slices of contact however he could. Sometimes Zayn felt as though he was starved for it, for Harry's affection and his kisses. It was terrifying, really, how dependent Zayn was on Harry's presence already and it had only been a few weeks of this more-than-friends thing. It felt like they'd known each other for an eternity, though, which led Zayn to believe that maybe Harry had been right. Maybe it really was just as easy as deciding they were going for it and then committing to each other. Destiny or fate or whatever you wanted to call it. “Like, when Louis says some of those things, I think it might not really be comments directed at you. Like, I think those are actually thoughts that he's directing towards himself.”

Harry opened his mouth before shutting it, running his fingers over his arm and huffing out another discontented breath. “Yeah. Yeah, you're right, Zayn. I know you are.”

Zayn knocked his shoulders against Harry's, just a little reassuring thing to keep Harry grounded. Harry smiled bright and wide at Zayn before ducking his head down again, long brown hair falling into his eyes in soft waves.

“You know that girl he was talking about – Louis, I mean,” Harry started, licking over his lips. “They ran into each other one day a few months back. They both still orbit the same circles, I guess it was only a matter of time, really. Louis said he legitimately begged her to forgive him, to take him back, even though he was still with Eleanor and everything. And the girl – Michaela – she said, 'No.'”

“Good for her.”

Harry's head darted up, his eyes wide and questioning. “' _Good for her_ ?'” he repeated. “Zayn, she broke Lou's heart.”

“And he _deserved it_ ,” Zayn answered. “I would do the same exact thing if I was in her shoes. Louis – he basically was speaking out of one side of his mouth, yeah? Giving lipservice to the movement, to equality, and then backing away from his morals when it really counted. How could you expect her to just take him back after watching him make an ass out of himself like that?”

“But didn't he do his penance?” Harry asked. “He's felt so guilty for so long, Zayn.”

“And if this girl, this Michaela, thinks he's earned her forgiveness, she'll let him know,” Zayn answered with a shrug. “I've gotta be sure of that. I mean – how would you feel? If I took you home and my family pitched a fit and I was just like, 'Well, we did make a good go of it, Styles?'”

They both knew it would never happen, not like that. Zayn had already told Harry about his parents – his Irish mother and his Pakistani father. Two people who fell in love the minute they met and were willing to deal with whispers and blatant hostility because what they felt for each other was  _that_ strong. And Zayn's parents would never have an issue with Zayn bringing home a girl of any race, even a Negro girl – it would be hypocritical, an insult to what they had dealt with in order to be together. But Zayn knew he couldn't bring Harry home and say this was the  _boy_ he wanted to spend his entire life with. It was silliness to even entertain the thought, just as it was silliness to hope that one day Harry might bring Zayn down to Los Angeles to meet Harry's father. This wasn't the world they lived in. They couldn't even hope to hold each other's hands in public.

“I would be disappointed, I suppose,” Harry admitted grudgingly. “I would be upset and I would – I wouldn't really want to talk to you for a while.”

“It's the exact same thing with Michaela,” Zayn said delicately. “But it's – that's all right, deep down, right? Because Louis has got Eleanor now, and you said they both have their own baggage. So maybe they can hoist their luggage up together.”

Harry snickered, this cute little guffaw that made something loosen and go gooey in Zayn's chest. He was so gone for this boy, this strange hippie that went to Merritt College and who always insisted there was other tea in the house besides Earl Grey even though that was the only type he ever brought upstairs in old, chipped mugs. A boy who stole all the blankets in his sleep but still wrapped himself around Zayn and felt like a heater. A boy who knew all of the kids in the neighborhood and actually meant his smiles, every single one.

“One-for-one?” Zayn asked, blinking up at Harry through the spread of his eyelashes. Harry nodded, biting at the pinkness of his bottom lip. “I think I love you, Harry Styles,” Zayn mumbled. And it was a declaration even though Zayn didn't scream it, even though he had to whisper because that was just the world they lived in and Zayn had to be careful, had to be a little scared in order to survive. But he never felt braver than he did now, staring Harry in the eye and feeling affection swell in his chest.

“It's not much of a secret, but I think I love you, too, Zayn Malik,” Harry answered with a lopsided grin. And they weren't touching, couldn't even seal the moment with a press of hands let alone a kiss, but Zayn had never felt more loved and comforted than he did now. 

  
  


The next few months passed both like a daydream and a nightmare. 1967 ended and Zayn welcomed 1968 in Harry's bed, sucking hickies into Harry's chest while Harry wound his fingers through Zayn's hair. And that was the daydream bit, because when Zayn was with Harry, life still didn't feel real. It still felt like a spell, like a movie that Zayn didn't want to see the end of. 

But the world didn't stop just because they were together, just because they were in love. The Earth still turned, the days still trudged by, and things just seemed to get worse and worse on the news, especially in Vietnam. Zayn and Harry would huddle together around the television set in the boys' house and watch the news, and Niall's eyes would kind of glaze over as the newscasters talked about the escalation of violence on the other side of the world. Zayn couldn't even begin to imagine what it was like for Niall to watch all of these reports, did not even understand how someone could have lived through all of the horrific images that were now being broadcast on primetime.

  
  


It was two days after Zayn's birthday, a day Zayn spent lazily under and on top of covers, and Zayn and Harry were making what was now a weekly trip back to Zayn's apartment to pick up clothes and textbooks. Zayn had hardly kicked the door closed before he was shoved up against it, a grin on Harry's face as he leaned in for a kiss. Zayn hummed against Harry's lips, almost laughing at the taste of tea on Harry's tongue, but there was a very loud and pointed cough from the couch and Harry promptly pushed himself away from Zayn, a blush coloring his cheeks.

Zayn was surprised to see that both Danny and his brother, Ant, were on the couch, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table in front of them. Danny's hair was completely mussed and he was sitting about in his pajamas. Ant did not look a whole lot better, his eyes red-rimmed and watery.

“Sorry,” Zayn said, walking past Harry so that he was more firmly in the living room. “I, uh. I assumed you would be at class, Dan.”

“Normally I would be,” Danny answered with a quirk of his eyebrow. Ant sniffled and turned away, a nerve working in his jaw. “But uh. I realized it doesn't really matter whether I go or not now.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, coming up behind Zayn and propping his chin on Zayn's shoulder. “Also, hi,” Harry added, turning towards Ant. “I'm Harry.”

Danny rolled his eyes and picked up the bottle of whiskey, upending more than a shot's worth into his mouth. Ant was still pointedly staring at a fixed spot on the wall, but he still answered. “Hi. I'm Ant. And – and it means Danny's deferment got rejected.”

Zayn had always thought the expression was a bit of a cliché, but he legitimately felt his stomach drop. Everything felt wrong and Zayn had to remind himself to breathe. He hoped he misheard, hoped that Ant had mistakenly used the wrong word as he was wont to do, but Zayn also knew Danny, recognized the sadness in his eyes. It was the same sort of sadness Zayn sometimes saw echoed in Niall's. This was not a joke or a misunderstanding.

Zayn had not expected _this_ when he came home to pick up some jeans.

“But – how is that possible?” Harry demanded. Zayn was glad one of them was still capable of rational thought or speech because Zayn was just stuck, heart and mind racing. “You're in school, you've got a job. Zayn's told me about your mom – you're needed here. That's like – deferments are granted exactly for people like you.”

“No,” Danny answered bitterly. “Deferments are granted for rich kids whose dads can bail them out.”

“But – but _that's not fair_ ,” Harry said and he just sounded so, so young. So young and so upset and Zayn hated it, hated that Harry was baffled by the injustice occurring to someone he only tangentially knew, someone Harry only really saw once a week in between trips to the laundromat. “You did everything right!”

“We should just go to Canada, Dan,” Ant said, finally tearing his eyes away from the wall to turn pleadingly toward his brother. “I'll go with you. We'll just get the fuck out of the country.”

“I can't do that to Mom – ”

“We'll take her, too!” And Zayn knew that Ant was just trying to protect his brother, trying to come up with a way to guarantee that their family wouldn't be ripped apart. But Ant and Danny came from the same sort of background Zayn did. Their mom couldn't just up and leave the country, and if Danny went to Canada alone, it would destroy her.

And the idea of Danny going away to Vietnam – that would wreck her, too. Would wreck any loving mother.

There was no way to win this and that was what was more fucked up than anything else.

Zayn didn't know what else to do besides walk and sit on the couch next to Danny, lying his head on Danny's shoulder like he used to do when they were both at the gym, watching someone spar and discussing technique. A grounding mechanism, a reminder that Zayn was still here while Harry and Ant continued to talk, throwing out suggestions of how Danny could dodge being called up, each idea more fantastical and outrageous than the last. They were kind of ridiculously similar, Harry and Ant. Zayn realized it now that he had them both in the same room.

Danny was smiling at least, the half-smile of a man already resigned to his fate, the same sort of ghostly grin that danced across Niall's face at random intervals throughout the day.

Zayn sighed and let his breath tickle Danny's neck. Because if nothing else – Zayn was here.

  
  


Zayn hadn't wanted to leave, but Danny insisted. Said that he was all right and that Ant would be there with him, anyway. Zayn promised that he would come back the next day – just him. Harry had pouted but Zayn knew he understood from the way he kept knocking into Zayn's shoulder as they walked back to the bus stop.

Louis and Niall were both sitting in the living room and watching the news when Zayn and Harry finally got back to West Oakland. Zayn could hear Liam humming to himself in the kitchen – it sounded like one of The Beatles' songs but Zayn couldn't be sure. Louis made room for the two of them on the couch and Zayn settled against the cushions with a sigh, unsurprised when Harry threw himself against Zayn's upper thighs and humphed loudly.

“What crawled up your ass and died?” Louis asked, turning away from the television and raising an eyebrow. The broadcasters were talking about Vietnam and Zayn had to look down at where his hands were twisting in Harry's curls so that he didn't scream.

“Zayn's friend, Danny,” Harry said. “They denied his fucking deferment, Louis.”

Louis turned to Zayn with this soft, pitying expression, as though Zayn was the one who was going to be shipped overseas. But Zayn wasn't – he was still safe for the time being. Still safe, still in school, still working for the school paper. And Zayn was in love with a boy right now, too. Zayn didn't want that to be public knowledge, didn't want to deal with the looks of disgust and the recommendation to get that abnormality treated, but if he wanted to make sure he stayed alive, stayed with Harry, Zayn would divulge whatever information he needed to. Zayn had that option, at least. Danny didn't.

But it wasn't Louis who finally spoke up, but Niall.

“Shit,” Niall said. “I – _shit_.”

“Yeah, and the way he's talking about it – Niall, what can he even do?” Harry begged. “How can he get out of it?”

Niall shrugged. “Knifing himself in the leg might do it.”

Zayn barked out a laugh, startled at himself for finding Niall's dark humor amusing. “I'll make sure to suggest that to him when I see him tomorrow.”

“Niall,” Harry hissed. “I am _serious_.”

“No, I am, too,” Niall continued. “I mean, the kid's already in school. If that's not enough justification for a deferment, he needs to give them a better reason. That or just say fuck all and go abroad.”

“This is such shit!” Harry exclaimed. “I just – I'm just supposed to accept that?”

“You don't accept it, though,” Niall pointed out. “Isn't that literally how you and Zayn met? At a protest decrying how fucked up and racist this entire draft system is?”

“You know what, you're right, Niall!” Harry continued. “And the draft is – it's fucking racist and it's so, so fucked! And I'm sick of carrying this fucking card around.” Harry sat up and fidgeted with his jeans, pulling his draft registration card out of a faded leather wallet. Harry threw the card onto the coffee table with a grunt of disgust before banging his head back against Zayn's thigh. Zayn hissed with pain before bringing his fingers to card through Harry's hair again, but as he looked up, he caught the gleam of mischief that had appeared in Louis' eyes.

“Whatever you're thinking – ” Zayn started but Louis had already leaned in, a dark smile on his face.

“You should just get rid of it,” Louis said, tone slick and warm with persuasion. “It's a fucking symbol, man. A symbol of oppression and this godforsaken dirty war. So, like. Destroy it.”

“Destroy it?” Harry repeated. “But that's like – ”

“It's illegal, so what?” Louis interrupted, blue eyes wide and manic. “All the good shit is illegal. I got rid of mine ages ago, too.”

“You burned it at a rally,” Harry pointed out. “You burned it and got fucking _arrested_. They were talking to you about serious fucking fines, don't you remember?”

“Yeah, and so what? They never actually went through with it. So you should do the same,” Louis hissed. “You're sick of carrying that motherfucker around? You wanna prove that it isn't just about words – that you've got the balls to back your shit up? _Then burn it_.”

Harry opened his mouth and closed it, his lips working mindlessly. Zayn watched him closely, could almost see the wheels turning in Harry's skull. Zayn wondered if Harry was even capable of telling Louis “No” anymore. Because it was an awful idea, one that could very well get Harry arrested or fined, but it was also a great one. Even Zayn could admit that. Zayn wanted to know if Harry would go through with it, too.

“C'mon,” Louis wheedled. “We can just go through to the kitchen and turn the burner on. Then poof – it's gone.”

“What happens though?” Harry asked. “Like if someone asks to see my draft registration card?”

“How often has anyone actually asked to see it?” Louis scoffed. “And I dunno. Nothing really. I mean, I would hope the Feds have better shit to do.”

Harry turned to look at Niall, who was watching the scene playing out in front of him impassively. Zayn honestly had no clue what it was Niall was thinking, wondered whether Niall thought they were a whole lot of cowards, complaining about a possibility that had been his reality. But Zayn knew that couldn't be right – not when Niall was so kind and loving, a blond boy from Chicago who thought he had no other options than to volunteer. Niall couldn't fault them for not wanting to participate in a global bloodbath.

“All right,” Harry said, gaze still firmly locked with Niall's. “Let's do this.”

  
  


Liam, as usual, attempted to be the solitary voice of reason.

“This is an awful idea,” Liam protested after Louis barged through the kitchen, the rest of the boys in tow, and explained what it was that Harry planned to do. But it was too late for protestations, really. Harry was already turning on the stove while Louis clapped his hands together in glee.

“Fuck the man,” Louis said. “Fuck the fucking system. Burn that shit, Harry. Burn it, burn it. Burn it.”

“You could just go down to the military induction center, Haz, if it ever came to it.” Liam was practically pleading, his brown eyes wide and beseeching. “You know you could dodge it, all you'd have to do is talk about school and who your parents are, maybe mention Zayn – ”

“Harry shouldn't need to proclaim to the whole world that he lets Zayn fuck him in the ass in order to get out of the damn war,” Louis snarled. “And it's a fucking disgrace that you even insinuated as much.”

Liam gulped but remained silent, looking sad and alone in the corner of the kitchen. Niall was watching the entire scene with closed off eyes, seemingly far away like he got sometimes, but it wasn't like Zayn could do a whole lot about the reality that Niall saw ghosts that Zayn was glad he couldn't see. Zayn never wanted Harry to go through that.

The fire from the burner was almost leaping now. Harry was dangling his draft card over the flame teasingly. Like it was a game. Like getting fined or going to jail for tampering with his damn draft card was all in good fun. Like it wasn't a fucking statement, a proclamation against this fucked up war and this fucked up world they had inherited. All a silly college boy's game, and maybe it was.

“Just do it if you're gonna do it,” Niall goaded, emerging from whatever nightmare he had been revisiting. “We don't have all fucking day.”

Harry's green eyes flickered over to Niall, and then he was dropping his draft card over the burner, the ends of the piece of paper curling inward as it was engulfed within the flames. It reminded Zayn of being a kid and accidentally knocking some old newspapers into a bonfire on the beach. Mesmerized by the reality of what he had done, the way there weren't quite words to describe the color of fire or its awesome potential.

“You're a real man now, Styles,” Louis said, clapping Harry on the back. But when Harry beamed, it wasn't at Zayn or Louis or Liam. It was at Niall. 

  
  


But just because Harry had dropped his card over the burner didn't mean that the war wasn't still raging, that Danny wasn't still being called up to join in the madness that had overtaken the nation. All Zayn had to do was open up a newspaper or turn on Harry's television set to know that the dissatisfaction with the Vietnam War had finally spread beyond campuses, beyond students and academics and the young poor and working class boys being drawn into the conflict. No, finally the dissatisfaction had come to encompass a larger swath of the American population. It was almost a tangible shift, one that gained steam when the Viet Cong's offensive at the end of January was covered extensively by the media. Zayn and Harry sat bundled on the couch every night, shocked and horrified at the graphic images that were being filtered back to them. When Gallup announced in February that 50% of Americans were dissatisfied with President Johnson's handling of the war, Zayn was surprised to realize that he could actually believe the figure. It wouldn't have been possible even six months ago.

Life went on, though, same as it always did. Harry accompanied Zayn to lectures and meetings at the  _ Daily Cal _ , and sometimes Zayn tagged along to Harry's classes at Merritt, accepting the literature that Black Panthers in leather jackets and black berets handed out as the two of them walked down Grove Street. Zayn and Harry had always kept close, but now it seemed like they were clinging to each other, had to constantly stay by each other's side. Just in case.

Zayn knew that people within their orbit were starting to talk about his and Harry's closeness, gossiping behind their backs, insinuating that something weird was going on between pretty boy Zayn and that curly haired fellow he kept around, but Zayn tried not to get upset about it. Tried not to get too worked up about the looks and the whispers whenever the two of them trudged into the  _ Daily Cal _ 's office, Zayn's Nikon in hand. Especially because the whispers were true. There  _ was _ something here between he and Harry, a wonderful, beautiful, amazing something that Zayn couldn't even talk about out of fear that the wrong person might overhear. It was the best thing about Zayn's life, the reason why Zayn wanted to do well in school and take life-altering pictures, and Zayn wanted to scream with how happy he was for once with the state of some element of the universe, but he couldn't. He just couldn't.

Zayn and Harry kept on with their life regardless. Kept together because that's what they had to do. Kept going to protests, and Harry kept his arms open for Zayn when more news about Danny's inevitable deployment came filtering in. It was hard to keep up with it all – with being a student, being a son, being a good friend, and being aware – but just keeping close to Harry almost made the juggling act easy. Harry made Zayn see how all of these different components of his personality were interlinked, how being a friend went hand-in-hand with attending demonstrations on Sproul Plaza, and Zayn lost count of all the moments where he would stop and thank God for giving him someone to keep him grounded.

And as the months passed, as winter gave way to spring, it was starting to get to a point where Zayn could almost be hopeful, could almost think that all of the things he and Harry and Louis and Liam and Niall were participating in were making a difference. News came from the Central Valley of Cesar Chavez, President of the United Farm Workers, leading a fast for peace. President Johnson told the country he wasn't going to run for re-election. And then Senator Robert fucking Kennedy announced that he was running for President on the Democratic ticket, heading a decidedly anti-war platform. Cesar Chavez even ended his fast after Robert Kennedy flew into Delano and it was amazing, the image of these two men nestled together, both supporters of peace and freedom and good old fashioned American opportunity. Zayn and Harry spent hours talking about the event, knocking their knees together and getting optimistic as March turned into April.

Looking back, Zayn would realize it was false hope. Because April 1968 was when the world really started to go to shit.

  
  


Zayn was at the boys' house, getting the front of his shirt wet while did the dishes. Zayn practically lived at the boys' house now, unease settling in his bones whenever he was in his own apartment, knowing that Danny wasn't really _there_ , either. Danny still had a few weeks left before he had to report and go abroad, and he was spending almost all of it with Ant and his mom. Zayn tried to be supportive, he really did, but it was hard not to look at Danny and not think of body bags and coffins. They had tried to talk about it, through stuttering words and halting gazes, but Zayn knew Danny understood.

All of the boys were out back knocking around with garden tools. Following Cesar Chavez's fast, Louis had gotten it into his head that he no longer wanted to participate in the “exploitative bourgeois capitalist system of purchasing groceries from Lucky's,” announcing that they would buy directly from farm workers and also try to grow a few things themselves. So the four other boys were trying to build the same sort of living wall that their neighbor, Aunt Ada, had next door. Zayn was dubious of this wall's success so he had opted to stay indoors, cleaning up after Harry had cooked for them all. Zayn had the radio playing on the counter, humming along to “I Wish It Would Rain” on KSOL.

Zayn was half paying attention when the tinny announcer's voice first came over the line. “We have deeply troubling news coming out of Memphis,” the announcer started. “Dr. Martin Luther King has been shot. I repeat – Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Nobel Peace Prize winner, noted pastor, and Negro activist, has been shot. As of this hour, we do not have any reports of his condition – ”

“Fuck,” Zayn mumbled, fingers still soapy from the dish in his hands. It was a miracle he didn't drop the plate or throw it against Harry's kitchen wall, fracture it into tiny, jagged pieces. It was a miracle he was even capable of any sort of logical thought – everything in his mind sharpening into one clear objective. Everyone needed to come the fuck inside. “Fuck. Harry! _HAZ_!”

Zayn heard a crash from outside and then some footsteps. Harry emerged wearing a pair of ridiculous overalls, a shovel in hand, a streak of dirt on one cheek, and an inquisitive look on his face.

“Tell – tell the other boys to come inside,” Zayn gulped. “It's not safe outside, tell them all to come inside.”

Harry frowned at Zayn and leaned the shovel up against the back door. “Zayn, what's going on – ?”

“They shot him,” Zayn gasped, sharp, lancing pain making its way through all of his extremities and twisting hot in his chest. This discontent, this fear – it shouldn't be so physical, but it was. “They shot Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.”

Harry's face twisted up in confusion. He – it was obvious, clear in that moment that he didn't even think Zayn was telling the truth. Why would he? It wasn't a sentence Zayn didn't think he would ever have to utter, either – even knowing that they were in the middle of a war and there were some in this godforsaken country that strung Negroes up on trees for sport. The world had proven itself to be that fucking batshit, and Zayn and Harry were still so young, so damn naïve. “ _What_ ?”

“They shot Martin Luther King!” Zayn exclaimed. “They just – they just said it on the news, on the radio! He was down in Memphis and they shot him.”

“Fuck,” Harry said, turning around in the entryway and pulling his hair. He crouched down into a squat, squeezing his eyes shut. Redness spread across his collarbones, traveling up his neck and tinting his ears. “Motherfucking fuck.”

“Get the boys inside, Haz,” Zayn said. “There's – if, if things aren't all right, we're gonna have to – ”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, eyes wide and crazed. He looked so much like Niall, fighting down demons only he could see, and it hurt Zayn's spirit, crushed him, made Zayn feel weak and helpless. But wasn't he? Weren't they all? “I'll – we'll all come inside. Lock the front door, all right?”

“Good lad,” Zayn mumbled as Harry went bounding back outside, shouting to Liam, Niall, and Louis to come indoors. Zayn laid the dish back into the sink as delicately as he could and braced himself over the counter, trying not to cry for a cause he had desperately hoped would win out.

Because the thing about Dr. King was that he had always been a bit of a symbol for Zayn. A shining knight, almost, who stood up for all of the downtrodden in the world. Zayn could remember poring over photographs of Dr. King when he was trying to teach himself photography – Dr. King standing in front of the Lincoln Memorial or with his arms interlinked with other pastors as they marched through Montgomery, Alabama. And yeah, Zayn might have argued a few times in coffee shops or out on Sproul about the legitimacy of nonviolence as a strategy, about whether or not tactics like Dr. King's could even work anymore when there were people like the Panthers out there, but that didn't negate the man's impact, what he had already done for Negros and for everyone else in this country who just wanted to be able to work, to have a family, to  _live_ . 

And now someone had shot him. Had shot Dr. King. And the people on the radio still didn't know if Dr. King was all right or not.

Zayn forced his pain and confusion down long enough to stand and make his way out front. Across the way, Aunt Ada was sitting on her porch with her own transistor radio balanced on the railing, tapping her feet along to a low and slinky jazz number.

Zayn still didn't really know Aunt Ada all that well, only enough to always greet her and ask how her day was going when they crossed paths. She was a nice old woman, though, always bringing Harry jars of jam and pickled vegetables and telling Harry how glad she was that he had Zayn around now, that pretty boy who always made sure Harry went to class on time.

Zayn would've hardly realized anything was wrong if it hadn't been for the slightly gray pallor to Aunt Ada's normally luminous dark skin, the pained strain in her eyes. She stopped rocking in her chair once she realized Zayn was outside, too, stomping her legs out and sighing deep and low, the sort of noise only an old soul can utter, that seems to travel through a body, across space and through time.

“My grand-daddy was a slave, you know,” Aunt Ada began, her fingers clenching around the side of her chair. “I remember once we were in his old little house – this was back when I was still a young thing living in Mississippi. Well, my grand-daddy lifted the top of his shirt to dab at his neck. You know how hot it gets and he had been out on the farm all day. And there, all across his lower back, were these huge, ugly marks. Scars – they didn't even look like they ever got a fighting chance at healing properly. It was like once I saw them I couldn't see anything else – noticed that my grand-mammy had them, too. You could see the tips of them at the height of her collar when she bent over a certain way.”

Zayn didn't know what to say, looked down at the porch and scuffed his toe against the edge of the railing. It was such a personal thing to divulge – although maybe it wasn't, considering all of the bones that were buried and scattered in order to make this country what it was. Maybe Aunt Ada was just being brave, reminding Zayn of everything this nation had yet to reconcile or address head-on. All of the formerly enslaved grand-daddies and grand-mammies, the horrific truth that America's great injustices weren't all that far removed. Were on-fucking-going.

“Do you think Dr. King will be all right, ma'am?” Zayn finally asked, coughing into a closed fist.

“I wish I could say, child,” Aunt Ada sighed, leaning back and resuming her rocking. “Lord knows we need men like him in this world. If for hope, for nothing else.”

Zayn nodded, leaning against the porch railing. Hope was really a funny thing like that. Zayn didn't even know what he would do if that light was extinguished, if everything went tits up. He'd go inside and smash that plate he had been trying to wash, probably. Throw it against the wall and watch it break. Let Harry wrap around him while he cried and banged his fists, calling out to a God who made it hard to believe in anything beyond pain and suffering.

“What do you think will happen?” Zayn continued, licking his lips. “Like. If he isn't all right?”

Aunt Ada threw Zayn  _a look_ , one that reminded him so intensely of his own grandmother that he shirked underneath the gaze. “You know I heard you calling to the rest of those boys,” Aunt Ada said instead. “You and I both know what'll happen. So we just gotta pray that it doesn't, all right?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Zayn said, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. “Is your nephew coming home soon?”

“Michael works the late shift again tonight,” Aunt Ada replied, pushing herself up from her rocking chair and looking out across the street. It was deceptively calm, and Zayn could make out the sounds of people's radios and television sets drifting from open windows, kids playing games and running around in backyards. The whole world steeling itself, almost, playing pretend at normalcy while everything was still uncertain. “Maybe that's the best place for him to be, really.”

Zayn nodded and made his way back inside, locking the front door behind him. Zayn convinced Liam to help push the big chair against the door, too, just in case.

 

Niall was the one who suggested they turn on ABC. They all gathered in the living room, a strange hush descending upon them, absolutely glued to the set as Peter Jennings announced that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. had died.

Zayn might have been the one who wanted to smash dishes earlier, but it was Louis who walked into the kitchen, throwing a plate down onto the ground before sliding to his knees. Harry eventually talked Louis into letting Niall look at his hands even as Louis agitated to go outside – to do what, Zayn couldn't guess – but even after Louis locked himself in his room and the rest of them settled around the television set again, Zayn couldn't get the image of Louis' shaking, bloodied hands out of his head.

  
  


Zayn had hoped that there wouldn't be rioting but he couldn't fault the people who took to the streets. He wanted to be out there, too, was the thing. Wanted to destroy property the way a murder in Memphis had destroyed his own dreams. It wasn't even like rioting was a fair trade, not like the way people in the media made it seem. Like smashing storefront windows was anywhere on the same level as sending a bullet through a man's head.

Instead, Zayn followed Harry upstairs to his bedroom. They shut the windows against the sounds of revolt pouring in from the streets and Zayn kicked off boots and jeans before crawling on top of Harry's box-spring. Harry put a record on – Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell, _Ain't Nothing Like The Real Thing_. The single had just come out, too, but Harry already seemed to know all of the words, was mumbling along under his breath.

“When'd you get this?” Zayn asked as Harry kicked off his shoes and threw himself onto the mattress next to Zayn. Harry was as warm as ever when he cuddled up against Zayn's side, pressing a kiss to the center of Zayn's chest and gripping his waist as though Zayn would fly away without Harry to keep him tethered down. And maybe Zayn would, he couldn't really be sure, although he had always felt like Harry was more the type to float away, drift onwards with the wind.

“Picked it up a few days ago when I was on Telegraph, after I'd walked you to class,” Harry mumbled, rubbing at his eyes and yawning. “Figured you would like it.”

“It's good,” Zayn answered, reaching down to grasp Harry's hand. He interlocked their fingers, somehow found a way to smile with the comforting press of skin on skin. It was possible that Harry would always make him smile, though. “Marvin Gaye is always good.”

“You're always good,” Harry answered, kissing the back of Zayn's hand and just holding Zayn there. “So, so very good. Do you wanna – should we talk about how you're feeling?”

Zayn shook his head, sighed. “There's nothing to really talk about.”

“But you're upset.”

“You are, too,” Zayn pointed out. Harry had kept sneaking glances at Zayn while they watched the rest of the news, like he was afraid Zayn would go running away. Zayn had tried to pretend like he didn't notice, same as he pretended like he didn't notice Harry's minute trembling.

“I'm trying not to be,” Harry said, chuckling even though the noise didn't sound right. Didn't sound right at all. “I mean – you told me yourself. Heroes die.”

“It's one thing for a hero to die and something else entirely for them to be _murdered_.”

“Che Guevara was killed too,” Harry said. “He was killed and you told me that the revolution lives on and – and you're right. Just cuz Che's gone doesn't mean the Cuban Revolution died. And – and I mean, it's gonna be the same with Dr. King, right? It's gotta be the same, I know it. Just cuz he's been – just cuz he's been killed doesn't mean that the movement is gonna die.”

Zayn wanted to believe Harry. He really did. But Zayn couldn't be sure, because it honestly felt like something had been stolen from him, like his dreams had been wrested away. And it was different – Che Guevara and Dr. King lived by entirely different tenets, embodied two different strands of the great fight against imperialism. Che Guevara was about the revolution, an embodiment of the new man, of the vanguard movement that would dismantle oppression. It made sense for Che Guevara to be killed in Bolivia because that was the type of life he lead – actually, physically fighting. Dr. King was a revolutionary, too, but not the type to pick up guns and go traversing through the jungle. So it wasn't the same. The movement – it was larger than Dr. King, yeah, of course it was. But Dr. King had spent his entire life speaking out against the very same instrument of destruction that had been used to kill him.

There had already been doubts that nonviolence could still work, that broadcasting racists' brutality on television was enough to shame the country into learning something. Dr. King's death would probably spell the end of nonviolence as a tactic, would lend credence to groups like the Black Panthers who said that you needed to pick up guns, that you needed to protect yourself.

But Zayn couldn't say any of that. So he cleared his throat and asked Harry something else instead.

“Have I talked to you about moving here from Queens?” Zayn said. “When I first got to school, nobody could pronounce my name right, so I started spelling it differently.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, propping his head on his hand to peer down at Zayn, that same little intense stare he got on his face sometimes.

“Like, if you look on my birth certificate, on my school transcripts, my name is spelled 'Z-A-I-N,'” Zayn explained. “But for some reason, nobody could fucking pronounce it right spelled like that. So I switched out the I for a Y and started going along with a more Anglo pronunciation, I guess you could say. My dad was really pissed off when he realized what I was doing.”

Harry's face was screwed up, perfectly confused. “What _were_ you doing?”

“Have you ever seen _Imitation of Life_? Cuz it was like that. I was trying to blend in,” Zayn answered plainly. “Playing up the fact that my mom was Irish. Not calling my parents _Baba_ or _Ammi_. Allowing other kids to call me by nicknames that made themselves feel more comfortable because I knew things could be so much easier if I was just all white. I can only imagine what I would've done if I hadn't met Danny and Ant. They were the only other brown kids in the neighborhood and the minute I found them hanging around at the gym I latched onto them, saved myself from giving into the urge to pass completely. Because that's what I was doing – trying to pass for white. And that's awful, Harry.”

Harry blinked at Zayn and it was obvious that he didn't really understand but he was trying. But how could Harry get it, really? A white boy who came from old money, from privilege, who could still go back to that whenever he wanted. Harry knew what it was like to deny a part of himself, and that was awful, something Zayn wished Harry didn't know, but Harry being queer was a part of himself that he could divulge or not. Zayn tried to pass for white as a kid, but he wasn't sure it would've ever really been successful. At the end of the day, he was just too brown, too Muslim, too different.

“Harry, it's not really about integration or whatever it is people seem to think it's about,” Zayn continued, voice soft and delicate. He wasn't sure if Harry would get it, but Zayn would still try. “What Dr. King wanted – what he was about is demanding to be looked at as human for once. It's not about water fountains and lunch counters or wanting to even really be around white people. It's about wanting to be able to live in peace and to have choices and opportunities without the burden of racism or poverty or violence or war. It's about not being second-class.”

Harry blinked at Zayn and Zayn decided not to push, just closed his eyes and let Harry hold him. Harry couldn't really get it, but Zayn knew that was okay so long as Harry kept squeezing him tight.

  
  


Harry fell asleep, but Zayn couldn't. Not really. So Zayn pushed Harry's heavy arm off of his waist and made his way downstairs to make himself a cup of tea. Zayn was startled to see that the light was on in the kitchen. Zayn entered the room and was relieved to realize it was only Louis – well, Louis, Niall, a brunette with a heart-shaped face, and a tall Negro that Zayn thought might be Aunt Ada's nephew. They were all hovering around the sink and had looked up at the sound of Zayn's footsteps. Only Louis didn't look guilty, and yet Louis was the one pouring gasoline into a glass Coke bottle, the bandages Niall had put on Louis' hands earlier almost blindingly white underneath the kitchen's light fixture.

“Didn't know you were up,” Louis remarked, setting the petrol container onto the floor. “How's Harry doing?”

“He's fine. Asleep. Decided I would come down for tea,” Zayn answered dazedly. “What are you – ?”

“Oh, manners,” Louis tittered, even as he grabbed an old dishrag and began shoving it down the neck of the Coke bottle. “This is my girlfriend, Eleanor,” Louis said, gesturing with his shoulder to indicate the pretty brunette, who grimaced before waving shortly. “And this is our neighbor Aunt Ada's nephew, Michael.”

Michael waved as well, smiling and revealing straight, white teeth. “You must be the one my Auntie calls 'Pretty Boy.'”

“That would definitely be Zayn,” Louis remarked before setting the Coke bottle on the counter. “That's pretty much all you have to do, El,” Louis continued. “I know some people like to get fancy and have a wick, too, but really all you have to do is burn the cloth.”

“And it'll be fine in my bag?” Eleanor said, cutting her eyes over to Zayn even as she picked up the bottle.

“I can carry it if you want,” Louis offered. “Michael, did you – ?”

“No, it's groovy, man,” Michael answered, smiling that same large, playful grin that Zayn saw on Aunt Ada's face all the time. “I still don't even know if I want to go out or not. Auntie is terrified that the pigs are gonna shoot on sight.”

“They probably will,” Niall said. Zayn had almost forgotten he was there, he was so quiet. His eyes dazed, a little vacant. “I want you to watch yourself, Louis. _Really_. This isn't like everything else. This is different.”

“It'll be fine,” Louis said, waving his hand about, his bandaged palms belying how un-fine everything really was. “El, you ready?”

“Let me just run to the bathroom,” Eleanor said and she did just that, smiling at Zayn blithely as she made her way out of the kitchen. Michael similarly excused himself, murmuring a soft goodbye before letting himself out of the backdoor, Niall turning to lock it behind him.

It was quiet for a few moments, all of them standing around and looking at their feet, their hands. So much had happened and April 4th still wasn't over. It was only something like ten o'clock.

“I actually saw Dr. King once,” Louis said, clearly uncomfortable with the silence, hooking and unhooking his feet, drumming his fingernails on the counter. “It was really nice. Part of some rally. But I remember how inspirational he was. He just had something about him.” Louis paused, pursing his lips and sighing. “When I was with SNCC at Stanford, we went down to Mississippi to work on the Freedom Ballet Initiative. It sucked so bad. A lot of us got beaten. I had never been so afraid for my life. I just remembered thinking that I couldn't imagine what it's like to deal with that on the day-to-day. I took my beating, but a small part of me was _relieved_ that I could jump in and out of having to deal with shit like that.” Louis laughed at himself, this ugly, ragged sound. Like nails on a chalkboard. “That's awful, right? That you could pick and choose which things to experience and which to ignore?”

“No,” Zayn answered honestly. Louis' words rang too close to home, were far too similar to the conversation Zayn had tried to have with Harry earlier. It was almost too much.

“I just feel lost,” Louis continued and he just sounded so sad. So alone, so vulnerable, and so sad. “I left SNCC because it started to feel too much like a shitshow. And I started going to all of the Vietnam War protests because everything we're doing over there is so fucked up. But even those are starting to feel like a shitshow, like everything we're doing is just part of a circus. It's just – it's fucked up, man. It's really fucked up and I don't know what to do anymore.”

There was another long moment, the kind that seemed to stretch on and become physical, morphing into something Zayn could almost touch. And then Niall was talking, breaking the tension in the way only he could.

“You can keep making Molotov cocktails if it'll make you feel better,” Niall grinned and Louis barked out a laugh, hitting at Niall's tummy.

  
  


Niall and Zayn watched as Louis and Eleanor disappeared into the night, their bags clinking with the sound of glass Coke bottles. Niall locked the door behind them and rubbed at the scar on his knee absentmindedly, his eyes far away again. Zayn clapped Niall on the shoulder, squeezing him tight, and made them each a cup of tea.

  
  


The riots that started April off seemed like a premonition for the rest of the spring. Because the entire season was bloody, the death of Dr. King and the resulting violence that swept across the country only the start of it all. Liam brought home newspapers from work depicting the revolts. One hundred and ten cities across the nation engaging in days upon days of tumult, from DC to Chicago, Baltimore to Los Angeles, Kansas City.

The Bay Area certainly wasn't spared. Zayn and Harry holed up in the boys' house for a few days during the Holy Week Uprising, eating leftovers and Aunt Ada's pickled food, pretending as though they were safe.

That illusion was shattered when Zayn and Harry heard gunshots on the evening of April 6th. Quick, rapid, so very loud, so very close. Both boys were in the kitchen and they ducked down, hands grasping and searching for each other as their knees fell against the hard tile. They ended up crouching by the cabinets, the sound of gunfire echoing through the night. Liam came thundering down the stairs, a shotgun in hand, and Zayn almost had to laugh at how absurd of a picture they must have looked, Liam standing about in his underwear and socks while Harry and Zayn prayed together in the kitchen.

Niall wasn't even disturbed from his nap by the gunfire and Zayn tried not to think too hard about what other sounds Niall had become acclimated to over the years.

The next day, Zayn would hear what had happened when Aunt Ada's nephew, Michael, came over to drop off a pie. He was smiley, same as he ever was whenever Zayn caught a glimpse of him, but Zayn could tell that it was strained, noticed that the beam didn't quite meet his eyes.

“Eldridge Cleaver and some of the Panthers had ambushed some pigs and led them back to West Oakland,” Michael explained, sitting down in the small kitchen while Harry made up a plate for Michael to take over to Aunt Ada in exchange for the strawberry pie. “The Panthers were holed up in a house for a while – that explains all the gunshots. Then the pigs tear-gassed the building. The Panthers surrendered, were coming out, hands-up and everything, when they shot Lil' Bobby Hutton.”

“Bobby Hutton?” Harry asked, looking up and locking eyes with Michael. “Wasn't he – ?”

“One of the first Panthers?” Michael finished, pulling at a bit of dry skin on his lip. “Yeah. The funeral's gonna be held in a week.”

Harry shook his head in silent disbelief and finished making up the rest of the plate. Harry handed Michael the hot plate and helped the other boy out, standing at the back door and staring outside for a long, long time.

And that's how Zayn found Harry so many countless days over the rest of the spring – after they returned from a huge anti-war march organized by the Student Mobilization Committee in San Francisco. After they picked up a copy of _The San Francisco Chronicle_ with images of days of violent protest in Paris. After hearing about air strikes against North Vietnam. Harry just stood there, hand braced against the screen door, and stared outside, almost like he was dreaming of being somewhere else.

  
  


Eventually the semester ended and Zayn began entertaining vague thoughts of picking up a real job, maybe even waiting tables at the diner down at 8th that he and Harry still went to every so often. Taking pictures for the _Daily Cal_ was always something Zayn would enjoy, but things certainly slowed around the office when students weren't around for the summer. Either way, Zayn had to hope that Summer '68 would be better than the previous few months, his hopes buoying when Liam came to sit next to Harry and Zayn one evening while they were watching _The Hollywood Squares_. It was a good, mindless show. Zayn liked it far more than he would ever admit.

“Uh, I've got something to ask you,” Liam said, hopping over the side of the couch to sit next to Harry. “Well, both of you, actually.”

“What's going on?” Harry asked, chewing on a banana thoughtfully.

“I've got some tickets,” Liam answered. “As like, good behavior for my work with the Party? I mean – who knows how it'll end up swaying, but if Senator Kennedy does end up winning the preliminary – ”

“Liam,” Harry said, poking at Liam's bicep teasingly. “What is it?”

“I've got extra tickets to go to Senator Kennedy's reception in Los Angeles on the fourth,” Liam answered, the words coming out all in a rush. “I would ask Louis but he's always so busy, and I don't feel comfortable asking Niall to come when his knee's been bothering him so much lately. So like. Do you two think you could swing it?”

Zayn didn't even have to look over at Harry's face to know that Harry was full-on _beaming_ , dimples out in full effect, but Zayn did anyway, locking eyes with Harry and immediately knowing that they were going. This was going to be an experience they would look back on, later, when they were old. And wasn't that an outrageous thought – Zayn imagining he and Harry together _years_ down the road, swapping stories of the months following their initial meeting? But the idea didn't feel scary, didn't feel intimidating. Felt as wonderful and dream-like as everything else about their relationship.

“Being friends with a suit has finally paid off,” Harry exclaimed, leaning over across the couch to wrap Liam up in a hug. “Yes – of course we'll come! So the three of us will drive down to Los Angeles then? Keep it simple?”

“Yeah,” Liam answered as Harry pulled away, Liam's cheeks pink and a silly, giddy little smile on his face. Zayn couldn't judge Liam for his excitement, was sure that he was probably a little red himself, because Harry had answered for both of them. Like they were a real unit, a real couple. “My mom and dad said we can borrow the station wagon. The event will be at the Ambassador Hotel. Think your Dad will put us all up for the night? He is nearby, right?”

Harry shrugged, his eyes flickering to consider Zayn momentarily. Zayn couldn't quite read the look that passed over Harry's face before Harry was grinning again. “Don't see why not. He's always telling me to come down.”

“That's great,” Liam said, still grinning bright and wide. “You know word from HQ is that Kennedy has a solid shot at taking the state. Like, a really good shot, Haz.”

“He damn well should, he's the best hope the Democratic party's had – well. Ever. I wish I was old enough to vote,” Harry whined, stretching his arms out and collapsing on Zayn's shoulder. “Old enough to die in Vietnam but not old enough to vote. The world is so unfair.”

“My vote will be for two then,” Zayn said, leaning over and poking Harry's cheek. It really was unfair – the fact that at eighteen-years-old, a kid was old enough to be called into service, but too young to vote on the sort of policies that drew the country into an un-winnable war in the first place. Harry nuzzled into Zayn's shoulder and pressed a soft kiss to the skin there, settling against Zayn's neck and breathing Zayn in.

Liam beamed, clapping Zayn on the shoulder and ruffling Harry's hair before bounding into the kitchen with an eager smile on his face. Harry watched Liam walk away, smirking fondly.

“Liam's so strange sometimes,” Harry whispered conspiratorially before running his large feet over Zayn's calves. “But like – you really do wanna go?”

“'Course,” Zayn replied, grabbing a hold of Harry's foot and squeezing it. “Gotta meet your father, right?”

When Harry smiled, it was so sweet Zayn wasn't sure what to do with himself. But Harry still looked hesitant, almost like he was holding something back, when he answered, “Right. Yeah.”

  
  


A few days later, Zayn, Harry, and Liam loaded up in a forest green '66 Chrysler Valiant Station Wagon and set off for sunny, beautiful Los Angeles. It felt like one of those montage scenes from a road trip movie, windows down, radio blaring, three boys singing along to Sly & the Family Stone and The Beatles. They alternated shifts driving – well, Harry and Liam traded off because Zayn had never gotten around to getting his license and was too busy snapping photos from the backseat anyway – and after a full day of fussing over the radio and eating cheap diner food, they finally arrived in Malibu, pulling into the driveway of a sleek, modernist house with high windows and absolutely spectacular views of the beach.

“Whoa,” Liam said, parking the car and staring up at the house – if it could even be called that. It was more of a mansion, absolutely massive, three stories and imposing where it loomed over the coast. Their dusty station wagon looked lonely and out of place compared to the house's sheer magnificence. 

“Uh, yeah,” Harry said, tapping his fingers on the dashboard. “This is. Uh. This is my dad's place.”

“You never mentioned that your dad was _this_ rich,” Liam whispered. “I thought it was just your step-dad?”

“Both of them do pretty well for themselves. I haven't ever been to this Malibu house, though,” Harry answered, tone and body language cagey, but he smiled bright and open when a man came through the front door, arms spread out. Well-dressed in slacks and a neat button-down, the image Harry's father made standing in front of this massive, futuristic house looked like something you would find on the cover of _Architectural Digest_. Harry bound out of the station wagon and immediately let his father swallow him up in an all-encompassing hug. Zayn swallowed as he watched the two of them, feeling something heavy and unwelcome settle in his guts.

“I don't really wanna be here,” Zayn mumbled. “I don't feel right.”

“I don't either,” Liam admitted, but they both forced themselves out of the car nonetheless, smiling as Harry introduced them to his father.

  
  


It did not take very long for Zayn to decide he did not particularly care for Mr. Styles.

It wasn't like Harry's father was a bad person per se, but he was just too sleek, too put-together, too rich. His wealth oozed off of him, from the way he shook Liam and Zayn's hands – sturdy, firm, everything Zayn's  _Baba_ had insisted was needed in a good handshake – to the way he carelessly pointed out the women bustling about the house, not even indicating them by name but instead telling the boys to call down to “the help” if they needed anything. 

Zayn hadn't even known that people like Mr. Styles really existed. Zayn had grown up working class – his  _Baba_ worked on the military base while his mother helped at the local elementary school – and he hadn't ever encountered wealth like this except while watching films at the drive-in.

Zayn knew that Harry didn't grow up with Mr. Styles, knew that their ties were primarily biological after twenty years, but Zayn chafed under the knowledge that this was the sort of lifestyle Harry had been accustomed to before he made the decision to run away from home. Ostentatious wealth, careless manners, and referring to people by their positions – their class – as opposed to by name. Zayn could only imagine the way Mr. Styles and his business associates talked about people like Zayn over orders of filet mignon and scotch. It was repulsive. Zayn was glad that Harry got away from it.

The boys were all tired, but Mr. Styles insisted on taking them out to dinner. They waited in the atrium as he called down and had someone bring one of his cars from the driveway. And what a car it was – a brand new gold Jaguar 420, the sort of car James Bond would be driving in his quests against SPECTRE. Zayn didn't even feel right sitting in the backseat of it with Liam, resisting the urge to run his fingers along the leather and play with the windows.

They ended up at an Italian restaurant overlooking the ocean and Zayn tried not to stare at the other clientele. Producers, businessmen, actors and actresses – there were so many wealthy people in the restaurant, ones that Mr. Styles indicated by name, and it didn't feel real. It didn't feel right, either, dream-like in the worst possible way, and Zayn did his best not to squirm in his seat or reach out for Harry's hand. Zayn was so dependent on Harry's touch as a grounding mechanism now, but Zayn couldn't even rely on that. Not when Harry sat on the other side of the rounded table next to his father and Mr. Styles couldn't ever know about the true nature of Zayn and Harry's relationship.

“So you boys are in town for the Kennedy reception?” Mr. Styles asked, draping his napkin over his lap and directing the question primarily to Liam.

“Yes, sir,” Liam answered promptly. “I work for his campaign in Northern California and they invited me down to see how the primary ends up going.”

“So you're in politics? That's good, really good. Senator Kennedy would make a fine President. And what about you, Zach?” Mr. Styles asked, turning towards Zayn. 

“Uh, my name is Zayn, sir,” Zayn corrected, as gently as he could manage, although he wasn't too sure it was genial at all. “And I haven't fully decided what I'm doing after graduation, but I'm interested in journalism and photography. I work with the _Daily Cal_ right now.”

“ _Zayn_ , Zayn, I'm sorry,” Mr. Styles said, smiling blithely. “Where does that name come from? Is it foreign? Like – Italian?”

“Dad,” Harry mumbled, but he made no further attempts to defend Zayn or come to Zayn's rescue. Zayn blinked at Harry in confusion before turning back to Mr. Styles.

“Um, it's Arabic,” Zayn explained. 

“So you're not Italian?”

“ _Dad_ ,” Harry whined, this time a little louder. “You can't just _ask_ someone that.” 

“I'm just trying to get to know him, son,” Mr. Styles laughed, clapping Harry on the shoulder. Harry stared at his cutlery and stubbornly avoided meeting Zayn's eyes. “Where do you come from, then?”

“Queens.”

“No! No, I meant, is your family from Sicily or – ”

“Dad,” Harry interrupted, his hand clenched in a fist on the table. “ _He's not Italian_. Can we change the damn subject?”

Mr. Styles looked baffled. “But – so your name is Arabic. Are you from the Orient? Or were your parents Beats or something?”

Zayn exchanged a quick glance with Liam, who looked much like he wanted to make a quick dash to the bathroom and not return until the next morning. Liam had never done well with awkwardness. “Um, I guess you could say so? That I'm from – um. My paternal grandparents are from Pakistan.”

“Oh, oh!” Mr. Styles exclaimed, settling back in his seat and knocking his shoulder against Harry's conspiratorially. Harry was still staring at his cutlery and didn't acknowledge his father at all. “So you're Asian. I never would've even guessed!”

Zayn had a feeling that Mr. Styles meant it as a compliment and Zayn tried not to show how badly that bristled.

“No shit,” Harry muttered. “You kept going on and on about how you thought he was Italian.”

“ _Language_ , Harry. But you can't fault me. It would've come in handy,” Mr. Styles laughed, turning his eyes back to regard Zayn. But this time, it was much cooler, the same sort of look that always seemed to dance across older people's eyes once they realized Zayn wasn't white. “I never do know how to pronounce things right on this damn menu.”

Mr. Styles barked out a laugh but nobody else at the table joined him.

  
  


Zayn had no idea how many rooms there were in Mr. Styles' place, but Zayn and Liam's appeared to be on the opposite side of the house from where Harry was holed up. Zayn was still completely unsurprised when Harry knocked on his door sometime after eleven o'clock, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and his hair in complete disarray, jutting out in clumps every which way like he'd been playing with it.

“Is this okay?” Harry asked, seeming small and hesitant where he was standing in the doorway. “Can I come in?” 

Zayn nodded and stood back so that Harry could walk inside. Harry settled in the middle of the bed, a decent sized queen mattress, nothing at all like the cramped twin Zayn and Harry typically occupied in the boys' house. Zayn watched Harry get settled before he crawled onto the bed behind Harry. Zayn wrapped loose arms around Harry's waist while Harry sniffled and played with the rings on Zayn's fingers.

“I'm sorry,” Harry mumbled.

“What're you sorry for?”

“For my dad.”

Zayn shrugged and tried to soothe the tension out of Harry's back with light, pecking kisses. “You hardly know him. You're not responsible for his actions.”

“Yeah, but I – like. I should've said something at dinner,” Harry continued. “But he just kept talking and talking and I – I dunno. I froze. I didn't want to make him mad. He could've kicked us out or something.”

“I wasn't expecting you to stick up for me,” Zayn said, even though it wasn't true. Even though he had _wanted_ Harry to stick up for him. Zayn had felt so confused by Harry's halfhearted interjections that he threw off Harry's hand when Harry reached out for his shoulder on the way out of the restaurant. 

But Zayn wasn't quite as angry now, and this was punishment enough – knowing that Harry felt bad about his earlier silence, that Harry had been agonizing over it in the interim, running his hands through his hair and thinking about how upset Zayn must be.

“Doesn't matter if you were expecting it or not,” Harry answered defiantly, rolling over and taking Zayn's face in his hands. “I should've said something. And I didn't and that's shitty. I – I don't ever want you to doubt me, the way Louis' old girl Michaela came to doubt him. I never, ever want that.”

Zayn leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the side of Harry's mouth. “I don't think I'll ever really doubt you, Harry Edward Styles,” Zayn proclaimed, grinning when Harry rolled them over and slunk down the length of Zayn's body to continue his apology.

  
  


The next morning, Zayn, Harry, and Liam woke up and spent a few hours on the beach. Zayn stayed on the sand snapping lazy pictures on his camera while Harry and Liam splashed around, dunking each other underneath the water and organizing races. They all parted to take a nap, Harry and Zayn dashing away to Zayn's room to continue the activities they had started the night before. The three boys met up again for a late lunch, redressed in more formal attire, and finally loaded back up in the station wagon sometime around six. The event wasn't until later in the evening so they walked down Hollywood Boulevard for a while before heading off to The Ambassador Hotel on Wilshire Boulevard.

The Ambassador Hotel was a giant, sprawling property, surrounded by palm trees and boasting good old-fashioned Hollywood glamor. Liam whistled as they pulled up to the front entrance and had the car parked, handing his keys to the valet with a chagrined smile.

The lobby was grand, with several large chandeliers and sleek Mediterranean-style tiles. Liam went up to a hostess who directed them through to a ballroom where Senator Kennedy would be addressing his supporters later that night.

Liam was kind of working the event, so he found some other people from the Party and said goodbye to Harry and Zayn for the time being. Zayn went to the bar to get himself something to drink, letting Harry sip from his whiskey glass whenever others weren't looking. Mostly they people-watched, hovering next to each other and wondering when the primary results would first start trickling in.

It was funny, actually, that they were so eagerly awaiting the results when Harry still wasn't old enough to vote and Zayn and Liam couldn't cast ballots in Los Angeles or vote absentee. Louis had seemed pretty confident that he could still get their ballots in if they wanted him to, but Zayn didn't particularly want Louis to go away to jail for voter fraud of all things. 

It was somewhere around eleven at night when the event staff announced that Senator Kennedy had taken California and would be coming out soon to address all of his supporters. Harry and Zayn turned to each other gleefully, damn near pulling on each other's shirts with excitement. Liam finally found them around this time, too, and they all wrapped each other up in a hug, buzzing with hope and elation.

Senator Robert Kennedy had taken California. He had taken the state over Eugene McCarthy – a man whose popularity and strong showing in New Hampshire had allegedly intimidated President Johnson from seeking another term. This was _huge_.

“They're also saying that Kennedy won South Dakota,” Liam said, bouncing on his toes. “He didn't clinch New Jersey, but that's all right. That still puts us at almost 400 delegates while McCarthy has about 550? 560? So it's _close_. It's really close.”

“He could win this,” Harry crowed, clapping Zayn on the shoulder and laughing a little maniacally. “Robert fucking Kennedy, an antiwar Catholic candidate, could end up winning the Democratic nomination – ”

“What'd I tell you, Haz?” Liam grinned. “It's in combination – direct action on the streets and participation at the ballot box. Change is coming! And even if it's not RFK who ends up with the nomination, we could do a lot worse with McCarthy, couldn't we?”

“I'd go 'Clean for Gene,'” Harry laughed, scratching at his long, wavy hair. “I mean, he's antiwar, too. That's all we really need.”

Harry and Liam launched into a fervent discussion of politics, and Zayn laid his head on Harry's shoulder, grinning and trying not to kiss Harry. Because Zayn was excited again. Excited, hopeful, and actually proud of his country for once.

  
  


Zayn had been to a lot of rallies and protests. He'd heard a lot of speeches – impromptu proclamations on campuses and more formal addresses at City Hall. But there was nothing quite like standing in the back of that stuffy, hot ballroom at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles and watching Robert Kennedy come to the podium placed at the front of the room.

There were so many people around the Senator – men in suits, both white men and Negroes, beautiful women in sleek designer outfits, cameramen – all jostling around on stage. Everyone was smiling and shouting and clapping at all the right moments, their elation almost a physical thing, an infection that spread throughout the entire room.

And then there was Robert Kennedy himself, the young Senator from New York with movie star good looks and a million dollar smile. A man who thanked his dog, Freckles, at the beginning of his speech, as well as all of the students in California who worked on the campaign – at which point Harry and Zayn each let out a tremendous whoop and pulled Liam between them, ruffling his hair and yanking playfully at his tie. Senator Robert Kennedy, a man who acknowledged the hard work of Cesar Chavez and stood on a stage next to Dolores Huerta, who thanked the black community for their turn-out and support. Zayn couldn't help himself – he took his Nikon out from the bag he had slung around his shoulders and snapped a few quick pictures of the scene. Senator Robert Kennedy standing on the stage surrounded by supporters, balloons flying through the air, and an almost magnetic buzz rippling through the crowd as everyone thought about what could happen from here.

Because that young Senator from New York could go on to win Illinois or his home state or _both_ , could maybe even win the Democratic nomination or, _God_ , maybe even become President –

The speech lasted about ten minutes, and then Senator Kennedy was being whisked off stage, ducking through a backdoor in a flurry of movement and noise. Zayn turned back toward Harry and Liam, both of whom seemed almost dazed with excitement and exhaustion. Zayn pulled Harry to him, wrapping his arms around Harry's waist and burying his face in the crook of Harry's neck. Zayn knew that nobody would be paying attention in this moment – everyone was so excited, so high off of the primary win that they were not going to be paying two hugging college boys any mind.

Harry and Liam were talking about something – Zayn was too sleepy to even bother paying attention. And that's when they heard the noises – a handful of cracks. They sounded almost like firecrackers.

But then again, they also sounded like the gunshots in West Oakland that had once sent Zayn and Harry scrambling to their knees, hearts pumping in terror.

It was absurdly quiet for a moment, and then there was pandemonium. Screaming, so much screaming coming from the back door that Senator Kennedy and his people had walked through only a few minutes prior. Screaming. And crying.

  
  


It was confusion in the main ballroom for several long, interminable minutes. Event staff were trying to keep everyone calm, but people were running in between the back rooms and the main ballroom, crying and frantically asking for a doctor, a nurse – anything. It was around this time that word finally trickled in that Senator Kennedy and a few others had been shot in the kitchens.

That was when things completely devolved into chaos. People were yelling and there was just so much noise, but Zayn didn't even feel anything. He actually wondered if he would ever be able to feel again.

This was – it couldn't be happening. It really fucking couldn't. Not after _everything_ –

He vaguely registered the pure, unadulterated anguish in a woman's wail and the screeching of aides trying to calm people down. If Zayn was capable of feelings, if he was able to process anything beyond the gaping hole where his hope once lived, he might've joined in on the panic.

But Zayn felt nothing. So he did nothing. Just slumped to the ground and tried to remember what it felt like – to be young and idealistic. To feel as though they might have a chance at dismantling this fucked up system. To have a chance at a better life, one free of war and needless death and constant fear, one where he and his friends and family and Harry could just _live_.

Zayn felt as though his optimism – his soaring belief in the promise of the United States and all that it represented, a republic under God that promised liberty and justice for all – had finally died. Was forever irrevocably extinguished.

When Dr. King was gunned down, Zayn could make sense of it. Of course the loss _hurt_ , the pain and exhaustion like nothing Zayn had ever known before. But after some quiet introspection, mornings cradling warm tea with Harry quietly reading his coursework at Zayn's side, Zayn realized that deep down he hadn't been all that surprised. Not after everything he had already seen in his life, all of the cruelty hurtled his way over twenty-two years of existence. A fucked up racist system had killed a man who was doing everything in his power to make things right. It had been folly to think the story could end any differently.

But _Robert Kennedy_ too? He was one of them – a white man, a privileged man. For some reason, Zayn had believed that the racist capitalist pigs in this country could _at least_ respect the color of Senator Kennedy's skin, even though Zayn had heard enough stories from Louis' SNCC days to know that whiteness wasn't always a barrier against this nation's cruelty. Whiteness wasn't enough of a pass anymore, if it had ever been.

Dimly, almost through a haze, Zayn realized that Harry was sitting on the ground beside him. But Harry didn't look blank, didn't look dazed. He looked like he still remembered what it felt like to be young and idealistic, with the whole world in front of him. And beyond that he looked like he remembered what it felt like to be enraged, to be consumed by grief and so overwhelmed by passion that he didn't even know what to do with all of the compounding emotions, scraping his fingernails against the tiles so hard that tips of his hands were coming away bloody.

Zayn grabbed at Harry's wrists and held them in his own lap. Harry was smearing blood all over Zayn's nice trousers, the same pair Zayn had once wore to his high school graduation, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter how Zayn looked anymore. It never had. All of that promise and hope, getting dressed up in the belief that it might make a difference, it had all been for shit.

Harry turned to Zayn, the pain in his face so anguishing that Zayn turned away with a flinch. It hurt to look at Harry like this, was almost torturous to look into Harry's eyes and realize that Harry still thought the world needed to be held to some basic standards – right and wrong, equality, justice. Zayn knew now that this society couldn't be held by any sort of code or principles. Powerful men just did what they wanted and everyone else cobbled together an existence from the leftover scraps.

“Have I ever told you how important you are to me, Zayn?” Harry whispered urgently, tearing his wrists out of Zayn's grasp and clinging to Zayn's face. He was probably smudging Zayn's cheeks with blood, but that hardly mattered, either. “ _Everything_ about you, Zayn. You're so smart and so funny and so fucking important to me. And I just – I just wanna make the world that much more beautiful, just so it can reflect how beautiful you are.”

“You can't,” Zayn rasped. “The world is shit. This country – it's shit. Nothing in this world is worth fighting for.”

“That's not true,” Harry plead. He seemed hysterical, almost, was shaking Zayn's face as he spoke. “That's not true, Zayn and you know it.”

“I can't keep doing this, Haz,” Zayn mumbled, turning to finally let his eyes lock with Harry's. “I can't keep getting my hopes up, thinking that we've finally got someone on our side. Someone who will make shit right for once.”

Zayn thudded his head against the wall, desperately hoping that he would feel something. A jolt, an ache. Something to remind himself that he was alive and that he mattered and that maybe there was a purpose to all of this pain. But he felt nothing.

Harry's bottom lip trembled. “This – it hurts, Zayn. But I've gotta believe that everything we're fighting for is possible. The world is capable of beauty. Cuz you're in it and you're the most beautiful person I've ever met. One guy – you said it, Zayn. Don't you remember? When we were on my bed together. I was so fucking down but you didn't let yourself get beaten down. And you can't – you can't be sad now, Zayn. Cuz heroes die, but the revolution lives on. It's bigger than any one man. _You_ said that.”

“They're clearing the room,” Liam said. Zayn had almost forgotten that Liam was even there. And if it hurt to look at Harry, it was absolutely agonizing to look at Liam. He was disturbingly pale, white as an apparition, his entire body trembling. Zayn had never, ever seen Liam look so upset. Liam, the boy with the kind eyes and a puppy dog smile who believed in the power of the ballot box. He looked like his entire world had been shattered. “They – they found a doctor and they said it'd be most helpful if we leave. So let's go, okay?”

Zayn hauled himself to his feet and pulled Harry up with him. Harry wrapped his arms around Zayn's neck and began to sob.

  
  


Liam somehow managed to get their car from the valet and they drove back to Mr. Styles' house in Malibu. Zayn took his usual place in the backseat and tried to comb his hair into his eyes. Liam attempted to haul Harry into the passenger seat, but Harry started blubbering again so Liam threw his hands up into the air and let Harry sit next to Zayn in the back. Harry's nails were scraped and dried with blood when he wrapped his arms around Zayn's waist, tight and octopus-like.

They didn't even listen to the radio on the drive back. Didn't even listen to the news. It was deathly quiet the entire way out of Los Angeles.

  
  


Harry didn't bother with keeping up with the pretense when they got back to Malibu. Mr. Styles met them at the front door, wearing a bathrobe and yelling frantically about what he saw on the news. He had said that the shooting had been caught by news crews, even, and he had been scared sick, worried that one of them had been hurt, too.

Harry hardly even acknowledged his father, though. Hell, Harry didn't even tear himself away from Zayn's side, just sniffled and let Zayn drag him upstairs, leaving Liam to deal with Mr. Styles. Zayn slammed the door shut behind them and turned on the light, helping Harry pull off his boots and clothes before grabbing a damp cloth and dabbing at Harry's cracked fingernails.

Afterward, Zayn sat on the edge of the bed, chain smoking cigarettes while Harry sucked copper from the wounds on his fingertips.

  
  


When Zayn woke up from a fitful sleep on the morning of June 5, 1968, it was to the news that Robert Kennedy had died.

Mr. Styles tried to comfort the three boys as they sat around the kitchen table, each staring blankly at their breakfast of oatmeal and toast, but Zayn couldn't think of anything he wanted less than to talk to Mr. Styles right now.

Zayn just wanted to go home.

  
  


Initially, the boys had planned to sit around on the beach and see more of Los Angeles before driving back up to the Bay Area. They had grand ambitions of making this thing a real trip beyond just going down to Senator Kennedy's reception. But all of the steam and excitement had bled out of their getaway, so they loaded into Liam's station wagon and made the drive back up to Oakland.

Liam was exhausted, hadn't slept at all since the assassination. Harry offered to drive so Liam could rest and Zayn sat in the passenger seat next to Harry, trying not to get too worried when Liam whimpered in his sleep.

“Maybe we should just fucking move to Cuba,” Harry mumbled once they were somewhere around Bakersfield, miles and miles of farmland everywhere around them. Harry's hands were gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles were a strained white. He was so tense, had been ever since they left the Ambassador Hotel, and Zayn hadn't known what to say to make him relax. Zayn hardly seemed to know how to talk at all anymore, just sat around with a cigarette glued to his fingers.

“How the fuck would we get to Cuba?” Zayn sighed, lighting up a cigarette then, too. Maybe having nicotine in his bloodstream would make it easier to hold a conversation.

“I dunno, take a fucking plane, tell the pilot to just go there.” Harry snickered to himself before casting green eyes Zayn's way. “It can't be worse than it is here, right? Fucking – they wouldn't have fucking killed Robert Kennedy in Cuba.”

“Stop,” Liam croaked from where he was curled up in the backseat. Zayn groaned, rubbing smudged fingers against his forehead. Of course Liam wasn't deep asleep. Of course he would be jolted awake by Harry and Zayn's conversation. “Just – stop it, Harry.”

Harry laughed, this ugly, sharp bark of a sound. Zayn turned away from Harry, resting his head against the frame of the passenger window.

“I'm just saying,” Harry continued. “Like, maybe we just need to get out of here. Maybe the struggle can't be fought from the inside anymore – ”

“That's literally the opposite of what everyone says, Haz,” Zayn interjected. “That's how revolutionary guerrilla warfare works, right? From the fucking inside? Che Guevara said as much.”

“And you said it yourself that Che Guevara ended up in a hole in Bolivia!” Harry scoffed. “Maybe he didn't actually know what he was talking about!”

Zayn wasn't sure what it was Harry was trying to do – was he playing devil's advocate or had he really done a 180 over the past few days? Either was possible. They were all so fucking shook. It was one thing to hear about a murder on the news and something else entirely to listen to it happen one room over. “Yeah, and so naturally you want to go to _Cuba_ of all fucking places, Harry? _Really_?”

“I just know that I can't stay here,” Harry said, voice cracking. “I really can't. You said it yourself and you – you were right. I can't keep watching everyone I ever fucking looked up to die, brains spattered all over national fucking television – ”

“So you run away?” Zayn asked, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at Harry. “What about all of that shit earlier? The revolution doesn't die with just one hero – _you_ said that to me, too. You said it like you believed it. After Dr. King and then again after Bobby Kennedy. So what changed?”

“Maybe I don't _believe_ it anymore!” Harry moaned. “And so I need to go somewhere that can help me believe again.”

Zayn didn't know what to say. Fuck, he wasn't even sure there was anything he _could_ say. This entire conversation was running in circles anyway.

Zayn fell silent again, smoking his cigarette and closing his eyes against the Central Valley's endless farmland. Zayn couldn't really remember the last time he had turned toward Mecca and prayed, but now he sent up a silent plea, begging for God to bring peace and serenity to all three of the boys currently sitting in a dusty green station wagon.

  
  


It wasn't like things changed dramatically after that, after a road trip to Los Angeles that ended in bloodshed and broken dreams. But Zayn could see the way things shifted after they climbed out of Liam's parents' car, stretching stiff legs and sighing at the familiar sight of that yellow West Oakland house.

The shifts were not overly pronounced but they were still there. How Harry hesitated sometimes before reaching out for Zayn, almost like he wasn't quite sure how to touch Zayn anymore. How Zayn pulled away earlier from their embraces, the reminder of Mr. Styles' careless words and Harry's silence still ringing through Zayn's ears.

And Liam – the boy who dreamed of being a Senator and tried to perfect a squeaky clean image. He took to spending nights out with Louis, now, returning home and smelling of whiskey and gunpowder. Zayn figured it was best not to ask.

Things were just. Different.

It wasn't like Zayn and Harry didn't argue before or like they never had disagreements. But the ones they were having now felt so _heavy_ , not petty little things like Stones or Beatles, instead these full blown-out arguments, ones that ended up with one of them storming out of the room and seeking solace and understanding with Louis or Liam or Niall. And these fights were never really addressed later, either. Zayn would just crawl into Harry's bed and press a kiss to Harry's shoulder, or Harry would leave the boys' house and come back with a bag of Zayn's favorite candy or a new record, thrusting the gifts into Zayn's lap and smiling shyly.

Zayn had always thought that he and Harry could be like his parents, like an Earth and its moon. Like a dream, like a love from a movie. But sometimes when Zayn was lying next to Harry after another heavy argument and procrastinated conversation, Zayn would look down and wonder. Truly wonder. Because now Zayn wasn't quite so sure.

The honeymoon period was over.

  
  


Another thing about the Los Angeles trip was that afterward Harry found himself a new hobby. And that hobby was pestering Zayn with the idea that they should leave the country and go to Cuba.

The first time Harry brought it up again was a few weeks after Senator Kennedy's death. Liam and Louis were both at protests in Berkeley for the establishment of an ethnic studies program and Niall was grabbing some drinks with other Vietnam veterans he had met around the Bay. Zayn and Harry were alone in the house for the first time in forever, and Zayn had expected that they would spend the entirety of the day in bed, passing the hours with more fucking than talking.

Harry seemingly had other plans, though, pinning Zayn to the bed even while attempting to hold a conversation. Zayn had difficulty paying attention to what Harry was saying, though, was much more focused on the bulge in Harry's jeans and the way Harry's back rippled underneath Zayn's hands.

“What do you think?” Harry asked, running his fingers over Zayn's waist, skittering his fingertips over Zayn's ribcage and back down. If Zayn closed his eyes, he could almost pretend like the touches were similar to the ones Harry used to bless him with a few months ago. Little reminder brushes of skin, not loaded with meaning or expectation like they had been lately.

Zayn had missed whatever it was Harry had started talking about, but Harry clarified soon enough, leaning on his knees and grinning down at Zayn. “I could get us two plane tickets to Mexico. I've got plenty of money saved up. We could spend a few days there – weeks, even. Just you and me, like a proper vacation. And then we can take a boat to Cuba.”

“What?” Zayn gaped, pushing Harry's hands off of his skin as though the contact was scalding. “You meant that? All that garbage when we were driving up from your dad's – you actually _meant_ that shit?”

Harry frowned, tilting his head before wrapping his arms around himself defensively. “I – of course I meant it?” Harry said, although the lilt in his voice gave himself away. “Why wouldn't I have meant it?”

Zayn shook his head. “Because you were upset? Because we were _all_ upset and just saying the first things that popped into our heads?”

“It isn't something that just popped into my head, Zayn,” Harry replied lowly. “I – I've been thinking about it for a while. Ever since Dr. King died.”

Zayn bit at his lip and tried to hold back a bitter laugh. “You've been thinking about _what_ , Harry? Abandoning everything we're doing here? Abandoning school – all of the protests? Our friends and family? Just _leaving_?”

“It's not abandoning the struggle,” Harry protested. “I just – I need to go somewhere where the fight has actually been working! Somewhere that can energize me and remind me what the hell it is we're even fighting for!”

“Well, lucky you,” Zayn snarled. “You can just run away from things when it gets bad – when it gets hard. You get the luxury of just tuning everything out and going back to safe, happy, Wonder Bread normalcy! How can you even assume that Cuba would let us in with open arms? I doubt that's what they were thinking when the guerrillas took Havana – two bent boys there on a little getaway.”

“That's not what I said!” Harry yelled. “You're twisting my words. I didn't say that I wanted to go back to being the privileged, rich white boy and we wouldn't be there just as a vacation. We'd be there to _learn_ , Zayn, to see the fruits of the revolution ourselves. To insinuate otherwise, to downplay what I'm really trying to do – that's not fair, Zayn!”

“Then what _are_ you saying? Really?” Zayn demanded, drawing his arms across his chest. “What am I supposed to deduce from you saying you want to leave right now besides the obvious truth that you are giving up?”

“Just that I feel lost! That I feel lost and I want to go somewhere that will help point me back home.”

Harry was red in the face, splotches of pink and burgundy spreading from his cheeks and down the column of his neck. And Zayn felt so _tired_ , could not remember the last time he had gone to bed and hadn't still woken up utterly exhausted. It was almost like sleepiness was etched into his bones. It went beyond restless, fitful sleep to a deeper weariness and fatigue with life.

“I can't just pack up and go,” Zayn finally settled upon. “My family's all here, I still need to finish up with school, and then when Danny comes back – ” Because it wasn't an “if.” Danny was going to come back from Vietnam, just like Niall had come back. Zayn was sure of it. “I've gotta be here for Danny. And now I've got Louis and Niall and Liam, too. I can't just _leave_ all of them, can't just abandon everyone – ”

“What about _me_?” Harry asked defiantly, jutting his chin out. “What if I'm not here anymore – you're just willing to forget all about me?”

Zayn stopped himself from screaming out at Harry for making it into a selfish fucking choice, a dichotomy when there was no reason for it to be. Zayn bit his tongue instead of retorting, “ _What about you_?” but it was a near thing, and judging from the ugly twist to Harry's mouth, the sentiment was heard loud and clear anyway.

“Goddamn you, Zayn,” Harry spat, pushing himself off of Zayn's lap and turning to stomp out of the room.

“Haz – ” Zayn called after him but he could already hear Harry's stomps down the stairs, and the slam of a screen door.

  
  


For the first time in ages, Zayn took the bus down to his apartment that night – the shitty apartment in Berkeley with a leaking roof that Zayn still paid rent for even though he hadn't spent a night there in months, not since Danny had cut his hair and loaded his life up in a duffel bag to fight for Uncle Sam overseas.

Even in the middle of summer, the apartment was cold and dank without Danny's presence. It didn't feel like home anymore. Zayn made his way through the rooms, aimless and wandering, before settling in the kitchen, scrounging through the dusty cupboards and looking for something to eat. There were only tins of beans and stale boxes of cereal. There wasn't even any tea.

Zayn fell asleep in Danny's old bed, clinging to sheets that Zayn tricked himself into believing still smelled like his best friend.

  
  


The next morning, Zayn woke up to banging at the apartment door. Zayn stumbled out of bed, legs catching in the sheets as he roused. Zayn made his way out of the bedroom with sleep-tousled hair and bags under his eyes and blinked dazedly at the sight Harry made on his doorstep. Harry was stood there, with brown bags of candy, a newspaper, and film for Zayn's Nikon, and Zayn let Harry in, same as he always did.

Harry didn't even comment when they settled in Danny's old bed, just pulled Zayn's arm over his waist and hummed, reading over the paper while Zayn sniffled against Harry's neck.

  
  


It was easy for Zayn to forget how young he and Harry were sometimes. Two college boys, young idealists with long, shaggy hair and stars in their eyes. But they were both so sure that they had it all figured out, knew exactly what it was they wanted out of the world, out of life. And for a handful of months in 1967 and 1968, Zayn figured that what he most wanted out of life – in addition to a world free of war, and racism, and poverty – was Harry Styles.

That certainty came to an end in August 1968.

  
  


Zayn woke up one sunny, summer day in Harry's bed, stirring before Harry even, and the birds were chirping an optimistic song outside. It was quiet in the rest of the house and Zayn strained his ears for the sound of familiar footsteps, the creaky open and shut of the screen door or kitchen cabinets. Zayn heard nothing, just Harry's low snores beside him. It was just Zayn and Harry, and Zayn wanted more from Harry than he had ever wanted before.

Zayn roused Harry with kisses along the knobs of his spine, pressing his lips against Harry's skin and humming at the salty taste of Harry's sweat. Harry roused quickly enough, the sheets dragging low over his hips, and Harry turned over onto his back with a sleepy grin. Zayn kissed his way from hips to chest, collarbone to chin, scratching his day old stubble against Harry's cheeks before meeting Harry's mouth.

Harry's lips were soft and giving underneath Zayn's own, and he smelled a bit like morning breath and tasted like the persimmon jam they had been slathering on top of biscuits a few hours before, right after they'd shared a bath that left their skin wrinkled and pruny. Zayn hummed as he licked into Harry's mouth, groaning at the taste and then again when he first felt Harry's hands running along his sides, pressing into his waist before spreading wide against Zayn's lower back. Zayn would never admit it out loud, but he loved how small and fragile he felt underneath Harry's fingers, loved the fact that Harry's hands could span his entire back, was endlessly enamored by Harry's gentleness where Zayn was concerned. Even now, as he dipped Zayn back against the mattress and rucked up the the hem of Zayn's pajama top so he could press his palm along Zayn's bare stomach, warm skin to skin.

“Need you,” Zayn panted, his tummy jumping as Harry dragged his fingers from navel up to caress ribs. “I want you inside of me.”

Harry stopped from where he was pressing his fingers into Zayn's chest to look quizzically at Zayn. “Uh. You sure?”

“Yeah,” Zayn answered, hauling Harry up to kiss him again. Zayn's eyes fluttered shut as Harry licked inside of Zayn's mouth. “Yeah, I'm sure.”

Zayn and Harry experimented quite a bit over the months, from the first time they confessed their feelings and Harry gripped both their cocks in his hand, pumping them hot and fast until Zayn dug nails into Harry's hips and came over Harry's creamy thighs. But Zayn had been afraid to do more than touch and lick and suck, was absolutely terrified the first time Harry begged to feel Zayn's fingers inside of him. Zayn knew that was a thing, of course he did, from taunts on the playground and naughty magazines Harry had stashed underneath his bed, but it wasn't a thing Zayn had ever been particularly curious about, not until he had coated his fingers in olive oil nicked from the kitchen and crooked them inside of Harry's ass, watching as Harry squirmed and panted and keened.

And things had been so tense between Harry and Zayn lately. They still clung to each other, but their love somehow didn't feel as deep or intimate as before. Before they had gone to Los Angeles and the entire world had gone topsy-turvy.

Zayn was young and dumb, so he thought that sex might help. That sex – giving a piece of himself to Harry – might bring the intimacy back.

Harry nodded and ducked his head to suck the skin of Zayn's neck into his mouth, groaning as he purpled Zayn's flesh. Zayn hissed at the jolt of pain and canted his hips upward, his eyes fluttering shut at the pleasure that echoed through his body when his cock dragged against Harry's. Harry was already hard and wet at the tip, like he had been dreaming about this moment in his sleep. And maybe he had been – who knows. Maybe Harry had somehow anticipated dragging his tongue down the length of Zayn's body and wrapping his lips around the head of Zayn's cock as hazy early morning sunlight filtered through his bedroom, warming the dirty mugs, books, and newspapers Harry still kept scattered all over the hardwood floor.

It was early morning sex in the best possible way, Zayn carding his fingers through Harry's long, wavy hair and pushing the locks back from his face so Zayn could see Harry better. Because Harry was always a sight like this, body flush against the bed, grinding into the mattress minutely as red blossomed across his collarbones. Harry liked sucking dick – Zayn thought it was all right, much preferred just wrapping his fingers around Harry's cock and feeling the way Harry's prick throbbed in Zayn's palm before he came – and the expressions that passed over Harry's face as he took Zayn in mouth made Zayn's heart stutter. It seemed so wrong, the way Harry's green eyes went dark and hungry, how his pink lips stretched and plumped around the width of Zayn's cock, the wet, needy noises Harry made as he swallowed Zayn down. The sight was better than any movie, better than anything Zayn had ever imagined when he would steal his mother's novels and pretend like the love scenes didn't make him feel hot and all out of sorts.

Zayn was so preoccupied with the blow job that he almost forgot about the other thing he had asked Harry for today, the thought flying out of his mind until he felt the wet pad of Harry's finger running along his rim. It felt weird – not good or bad, just weird. But Harry's mouth felt like heaven, same as it always had, so Zayn concentrated on that, even when Harry's saliva-coated finger twisted in, pushing against Zayn's rim and sitting solid and expectant inside of him.

“Relax, babe,” Harry said, letting Zayn's cock fall out of his mouth so he could talk. Even like this, with spit-slick lips and tousled, tangled hair, he was the most beautiful thing Zayn had ever seen. Zayn wanted to take pictures – all of the pictures. Wanted to start a stash of Polaroids underneath his bed, a treasure trove that Zayn could pull out whenever he was feeling scared and all alone, a reminder of what he and Harry had.

Zayn nodded, sucking in a breath and urging his muscles to relax, and Harry ducked back down, suckling along Zayn's cockhead even as he crooked his finger further inside. It still felt weird, not really painful, just a strange intrusion. But then Harry was pushing his finger against some spot that made Zayn's brain turn to static and Zayn could feel himself leaking out against Harry's tongue. Harry urged against that spot again, seemingly rubbing against it, and Zayn squeezed his eyes shut, mumbling to himself.

The next few fingers came easily enough, even as Harry stretched against his rim. It seemed to follow a similar pattern. Zayn wanting to push back against Harry's blunt, slippery fingers because it felt strange, so very strange, but then Harry would crook them against that spot that made all thoughts disappear and it would feel okay – better than okay, even. Zayn wasn't even sure what he was moaning by the time Harry had three fingers inside of him, pumping and twisting them slow even as his pink, kiss-puffed lips still mouthed along the length of Zayn's dick.

“Are – are you ready, babe?” Harry finally asked, voice hoarse but expectant. And Zayn nodded, watching as Harry rummaged through his bedside table for a small bottle of personal lubrication and a condom. “Can't use olive oil with this,” Harry answered with a wry smile, returning to sit in between Zayn's legs.

Harry's eyes ran over the entire length of Zayn's body greedily. Harry's arousal was evident and almost overbearing, the head of his cock poking dusty red through the foreskin and dripping wetness. Harry's entire dick was heavy and imposing in between his thighs, bobbing up against his tummy with every shift of his knees, and Zayn took a deep breath and ran blunted fingernails up his sides to calm himself, remind himself that it would be okay to have Harry inside of him like this. Would bring the intimacy back – bring the spark back that made them so great.

“How do you want this?” Harry asked, his eyes darting up to consider Zayn's. “Like. On your back?”

“Yeah,” Zayn whispered, steeling himself by finally tearing his eyes away from Harry's dick. If Zayn kept looking at it, he would talk himself out of it, convince himself that there was no way something that thick could fit inside of him. “Yeah, I – I want that.”

Harry nodded, rolling the condom over his length and slicking lubrication over himself. Harry took a breath before grabbing Zayn's waist, pushing Zayn's leg up and coaxing Zayn to wrap them around Harry's hips. Harry took a moment to rest the head of his cock against Zayn's entrance, rubbing it along the rim, Zayn hissing at the sensation.

When Harry first pressed in, Zayn shuddered at the intrusion, digging his fingernails into the meat of Harry's thighs. It hurt, was uncomfortable and felt so odd, this thick bluntness pressing inside of him. Zayn fought against the urge to clench and push against it, taking a deep breath and forcing his eyes open. Harry was staring down at him, this odd, intense expression dancing across his face before disappearing, replaced instead by fondness.

“Is this – ?”

“Yeah,” Zayn answered, anticipating Harry's questions same as he always had, communicating in half-sentences and mumbles and grunts. Because Zayn wanted this, felt the ache deep inside but told himself that it would feel better, would feel amazing even.

And it did. After Harry was buried in him, with muscles straining and sweat dripping down the column of his neck, pulling out minutely before thrusting back into Zayn with a surety that punched a groan out of Zayn's mouth. And Harry was doing it again and again, angling so that the head of his cock was nestled against that spot that made Zayn lose all coherency. Zayn wrapped his hand around his dick, still slick from Harry's mouth and even wetter now with his arousal, and pumped into his fist while rocking back onto Harry's dick. Zayn's vision blurred as the entirety of the universe boiled down to chasing pleasure and being with Harry. And right now, those two things were one in the same.

Zayn came with Harry's head buried in the crook of his neck and Harry's cock in his ass and Harry's hands on his hips and Harry's name on his tongue. And Harry came with his head buried in Zayn's neck, his teeth digging into Zayn's trembling skin.

  
  


It should've been a fairytale moment. But Harry seemed far away as he pulled out, Zayn wincing at the drag. He felt gaping and open without Harry inside of him, lost and alone again.

Something was wrong. And Zayn had had an inkling of it before, but he was sure of it, now.

  
  


They sat in silence for a long time, spunk drying on Zayn's stomach and hands before he finally stood to wash himself. When Zayn returned, feeling clean but not refreshed after a quick shower, Harry still avoided looking at him. Zayn sat at the head of the bed again, wincing when his leg brushed against a wet spot, and stared at Harry's profile. Zayn just wanted reassurance that everything was still okay.

“Zayn, do you think, like. Do you think that we should take a break?”

Zayn wasn't sure what he was expecting, not after slow, refreshing, earth-shattering morning sex. Maybe commitment. Maybe a question mumbled into his collarbone, Harry attempting once again to ask Zayn if he wanted to run away with him. Maybe this time Zayn wouldn't have dismissed it out of hand. Maybe this time he would've considered it. Maybe this time Zayn would've let himself be swayed.

This – asking to take a break? Asking to end things? Harry throwing Zayn aside – as though Zayn were just like everything else? Easy, disposable? That hadn't really been it.

Zayn shook his hair into his face, not entirely sure he could meet Harry's gaze right now, or ever again. He felt hot all over, then cold, and then numb. So, so broken, like everything that was keeping him tethered to this fucking world had been shot down in another drafty West Oakland house.

“Zayn?” Harry tried again. He sounded needy, pleading, even. Zayn didn't even know what the hell it was Harry could want from him, not right now. Zayn didn't want to look at Harry, didn't want to look anywhere, really.

Zayn was suddenly and viscerally disgusted with himself. Zayn had always thought that Harry was so kind and caring, but now Zayn felt as though he had been used, had been duped. Zayn hated himself for sleeping with Harry this morning, for giving Harry a piece of himself as though that would make a difference. For letting Harry inside of him as though Harry was worthy of Zayn's affection. Harry clearly hadn't been.

“You wanna take a break or you wanna just end it entirely?” Zayn finally spat, raising his eyes through his fringe. Harry was biting at his bottom lip, legs pressed up to his chest, his long, brown hair a bird's nest from where Zayn had been tugging through it. Harry was soft all over, from his baby-fat cheeks to his cock, still wet from where he had come inside of the condom. The skin Zayn had dug his fingers into earlier was already turning reddish-purple around his hips and Zayn felt sick looking at Harry like this, fluffy and malleable, the most beautiful boy Zayn had ever seen. Prettier than James Dean, more charming than Rock Hudson. “Cuz we can just end it entirely if that's what you want.”

“ _No_ ,” Harry said, reaching over and running his hands over Zayn's Achilles. Zayn flinched before deciding to one-up Harry, twisting out of Harry's grasp entirely before placing both feet on the wooden floor. It sent a shock of cold from the sole of his feet upwards, but that was fine because Zayn was already grabbing his socks and his pants and every other fucking thing of his from off Harry's filthy bedroom floor, kicking at books and old newspaper articles as he scrambled to leave.

“Zayn,” Harry croaked, pouncing across the bed and reaching out to grab Zayn's wrist. “Zayn, babe, _please_ just listen to me – ”

“What is it that you're going to say?” Zayn asked, quirking an eyebrow. “You said you think we should take a break. _You said that_. So I can just go. We can start taking that break right now.”

Harry gaped at Zayn, his eyes watery as though he wasn't the one who had proposed that out of nowhere. As though this was painful for _him_. Because it was always about him – him and his needs and his desires and his happiness. If Zayn didn't fit into that, if Zayn wasn't important enough, then _fine_. Zayn didn't have to keep putting his life on hold for a rich boy temporarily playing revolutionary anyway.

And Harry didn't say anything, kept looking at Zayn as though Zayn would be able to innately understand, could just read Harry's mind and have everything suddenly make sense. Maybe Zayn was once capable of that, of looking at Harry and immediately knowing, communicating in half-thoughts, but now Zayn just saw blankness.

“That's what I thought,” Zayn sneered. He pulled his briefs back on and then his pants, collecting the rest of his clothes in his arms and snatching his Nikon from where he had left it on Harry's cabinet before stomping out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Zayn took a shaky moment to throw the rest of his clothes back on, running trembling hands through his hair and pulling a half-crushed pack of Marlboro's out of his jeans.

Zayn made it halfway down the block before he was finally able to get his damn cigarette to catch. He hoped that the cloud of smoke around him would keep people from peering too hard at his tear stained face.

  
  


Zayn had never had his heart broken before. Somewhere around the fourth cigarette and the fifth shot of whiskey, Zayn decided that it really was as awful as all of the poets made it out to be.

  
  


The next morning, Zayn woke up on top of Danny's old bed to the now-familiar sound of Harry pounding his fists on the door. Zayn let him in, grabbing the bottle of whiskey from the kitchen counter before settling back on Danny's bed. It hardly even smelled like Dan anymore, only like sweat and cigarette ash. Harry didn't even crinkle his nose at the odor before settling on the mattress next to Zayn, pulling his legs into his chest and resting his chin on his knees.

“I – I should've done that better, yesterday,” Harry started. Zayn didn't say anything, just grabbed Danny's ash tray and lit another cigarette, not even taking care to keep the smoke out of Harry's face like he usually did. “I had been thinking about this for a while and I realize how it seems now. Like – like I just used you for sex.”

Zayn flickered his eyes up to regard Harry, finding solace in the fact that Harry looked like shit. His hair was greasy and tangled and his eyes were smudged with gray shadows. He looked miserable and Zayn was glad. Harry should be suffering for the stunt he pulled.

“It seemed like that because that's what it was,” Zayn spat. “If you'd been thinking about it, if that's what you really wanted, you shouldn't have fucked me first. You should've just told me that you wanted to end it.”

Harry opened his mouth and shut it, gulping long before turning away. “I really don't want to end it, though, and that's why I couldn't not have you,” Harry mumbled. “I – but you're right. I should've just talked to you. I was going to, yesterday morning. Like, I thought that maybe I could try and convince you again to come away with me one last time.”

“But I ruined the plans and so you fucked me anyway?” Zayn scoffed. And Zayn hated to think that's all it had been – Harry fucking him. Nothing deeper than the slapping of flesh. It made Zayn feel hollowed out. “Harry, that doesn't make any sense.”

“I know it doesn't,” Harry said. “I know it was awful and stupid but I'm trying to make this better. I'm trying to – just. Please, Zayn.”

Zayn tried to clamp down on the sadness that his body was converting into pure, white-hot anger. “Your sense of intimacy must be all fucked up,” Zayn said, his hands trembling as he flicked his cigarette against the ash tray. “If you thought that you could have me like that and still try to have a conversation about breaking up.”

“But I don't – ”

“But that's how I interpreted it,” Zayn interrupted. “How else would I possibly have read the situation? You should've stopped me. You shouldn't have let me make a fucking fool of myself. You shouldn't have used me.”

“You weren't making a fool of yourself,” Harry answered. “And – and I wasn't using you, Zayn. Scout's honor. You know how much I love you. I would've never done it if I had known how much it would hurt you.” Harry's hands were shaking when he ran them through his hair and he exhaled a long, sad breath. “You've gotta understand, Zayn. I – I just think I really need this – to get away for a little bit. For myself, you know?”

“So what do you want?” Zayn asked. “What do you want from me? _Why are you even here_?”

“Because I love you,” Harry plead. “I love you and I really don't think we should take a break, Zayn. I don't think we should end it. But I do need this for myself.”

“And you still want me to run away with you.”

“I do.”

Zayn shook his head. Harry had ruined this opportunity for himself. If only he had asked yesterday, running soapy hands over Zayn's scalp as they showered together after their morning romp. Or turning to Zayn in that cramped kitchen after making bacon and eggs. Harry couldn't ask Zayn to run away now, not after showing Zayn how disposable Harry really found him. Not like this, sat atop Danny's bed, Zayn's fingers black with cigarette residue. “I can't do that, Haz. You _know_ I can't do that.”

Harry's bottom lip trembled and Zayn sighed, rubbing at his forehead and wondering why Harry had to make all of this so fucking hard. Why Harry needed to turn their relationship into a cliché.

“Well, if we're meant to be together then we will be,” Harry said, scrubbing at his eyes as his voice shook and then broke entirely. All false confidence and childish bravado. “We will, I gotta believe that. The universe will give us a sign.”

Yes, a sign. As if it would be that simple – a beacon through the night sky guiding them to each other. A green light across the bay. As if love was that easy. And hadn't Harry said it would be, that night when they first decided they were in this together? When they were sitting underneath an open window, mesmerized by each other's eyes and heady with the promise of everything the world could be, should they only try?

It felt like almost a lifetime ago. And maybe it really had been. They'd both had to grow up in the meantime.

“I think you should go,” Zayn said, gulping and wrapping his arms around himself. Harry's face fell, the facade of strength cracking completely. Zayn steeled himself against the sudden onslaught of emotions roiling his own stomach, only gripped his elbows even harder as he bit out, “I'm still not even sure why you came here in the first place.”

“Because I wanted to see you,” Harry wailed, voice broken and plaintive. “Because I love – ”

“Don't.” Zayn didn't yell it but he might as well had from the way Harry flinched, face red as though he had been struck.

“I don't want to leave it like this,” Harry said, slapping his arms at his sides as a tear dripped down his cheeks. “Don't do this to me, Zayn.”

“I'm not doing _anything_ ,” Zayn replied, voice deceptively measured. Cool, even. “This was entirely your choice.”

“It isn't a choice – ”

“Then what is it, Harry?”

“I asked you to come with me,” Harry said, wiping furiously at his cheeks. “I asked and I asked and I told you this was important to me.”

“And I told you I wasn't leaving and you figured that instead of trying to find a way to compromise you would just end it – ”

“I'm not ending it!” Harry interrupted. “I never said I wanted to end it! I want you more than anything and I just need to know you'll still be here when I get back.”

“I don't even know when you're coming back! Do _you_?”

They were both breathing ragged, staring at each other with heaving chests and watery eyes. Zayn scoffed to himself and turned, backing up against the apartment wall.

“I think you should go,” Zayn repeated, although this time it was more like a whisper.

Zayn didn't watch Harry let himself out, but years later, he would wish that he had.

Because it would be a long time before Zayn would see Harry Styles again.

  
  


– – –

  
  


When they finally met again, it was a slightly different world.

It was a muggy autumn day in 1977, but Zayn Malik was nowhere near California. Zayn had never had the opportunity to travel as a kid, not really. Trips to his grandma's house didn't count and neither did a day drive nine years ago that ended up on the nightly news. So when Zayn's doctoral adviser told him about an opportunity to attend a few conferences in Rome, Zayn leaped at the opportunity. He would've been a fool not to take advantage of it, really, no matter what was currently going on in Italy. Zayn had survived the Sixties relatively unscathed, the only major casualty being a relationship with a wide-eyed boy Zayn once drank lukewarm tea with. Zayn could make it in Europe, could deal with radicals on either side of the day's great debates.

So Zayn packed two bags – one for his son, Kaiden, and one for himself – and dropped Kaiden off at his parents' house, trying not to get too sentimental when Kaiden stood on the porch, cheeks still chubby with baby fat, and waved his goodbye. Kaiden was one thing that Zayn hadn't foreseen when he was twenty-two, young and alone and heartbroken, but everything was all right now that Zayn was thirty-one, a little older and significantly happier. Because Zayn had grown to learn that the greatest love of your life doesn't have to be a romantic one.

It was a long two days of travel, first across the United States, then across an Ocean and half of Europe, and Zayn only had a few days to take as many pictures as he could in between the conferences. Zayn was exhausted from the moment he landed on Italian soil.

  
  


But the day that mattered – that one played out almost like a scene from a movie. Like something from one of Zayn's mom's romance novels. Almost like the entire world had conspired to bring them together. Because Zayn ended up with free tickets to the Galleria Nazionale d'Arte Moderna after a brief, albeit fascinating, conversation with a pretty French girl pursuing her doctorate at Sapienza Università di Roma. It was coming on closing but Zayn still found himself roaming the hallways, his boots echoing loudly against the tiling. Zayn had hardly made it into the fifth room on the ground floor before he got a glimpse of a familiar face. Chestnut brown hair and green eyes that Zayn had once tried to drown in.

And suddenly all of the Romantic pictures around Zayn seemed less inspiring.

  
  


It wasn't like Zayn and Harry's relationship just _ended_. Edges of Harry still crept into Zayn's life even after Zayn asked him to leave that chilly Berkeley apartment. So it wasn't a clean break. The hardest ones never are.

Zayn still saw the other boys, just as Zayn told Harry he would. Everyone in that West Oakland house was important to Zayn – not just Harry. Zayn would run into Niall on campus, sharing sandwiches and discussing current events. And Zayn still talked with Liam, going over the latest and most exciting record releases and drowning their sorrows in whiskey shots. And once Louis decided someone was important, he would do everything in his power to make sure they stayed in his life. It wasn't any different with Zayn. Louis visited Zayn's apartment every other day, making himself completely at home, so much so that eventually he moved in and settled in Danny's old room. Zayn and Louis lived together for the next two years.

So Zayn still heard about Harry. Heard how Harry was writing all of the boys these long, detailed letters. How he made his way to Cuba and found happiness there, traveling the countryside and talking to people who had witnessed the Revolution firsthand. How Harry wanted to write Zayn letters, too, but wasn't sure if it was appropriate. And Zayn would always shake his head at the cautiously hopeful expression dancing across Niall, or Liam, or Louis' face and say that it wasn't. That he didn't want letters, that he didn't want to see Harry's familiar scrawl and have to think about what it was Zayn had lost. What they had _both_ lost.

Zayn liked to tell himself, during nights when he was alone and he no longer had to pretend as though he was all right, that his thing with Harry had been nothing more than a glorified fling anyway. Started late '67 and over by the Democratic National Convention that shook Chicago the subsequent year. A child's relationship – doomed from the start, even. They were too different, they were too young. They were too dumb and this was a world where you couldn't really be those things. Their months together were a luxury and a privilege, and Zayn was just happy he had the fleeting moments while he could.

But now Zayn Malik was in Rome and Harry Styles was here, too. Harry Styles was here, making his way across the room and smiling his most winsome smile, and it didn't matter that Zayn was supposed to be almost ten years older and supposedly wiser, a doctoral student with a son back home and an old ring he still needed to sell to the pawn shop. Because he still felt the same butterflies, the same yearning, the same headiness in his skull that made him wish he were concussed.

  
  


Zayn saw Harry first, but he let Harry do the hard part, tasked Harry with the walking over and the first words. Harry was always the initiator, the one who loved the chase. And who was Zayn to deny Harry his fun?

It was like no time had passed at all when Harry was finally stood in front of Zayn, running his hands through his hair and grinning sheepishly. Harry didn't look that different from the last time Zayn had seen him – Harry's hair was still long and wavy, curling around his shoulders. He still had a smooth face, probably couldn't grow a beard if you paid him. And he still sauntered around as though he were a rock star or a famous actor, as though he were James Dean or Jim Morrison.

Zayn almost had to shake himself for drawing comparisons between Harry, James, and Jim. Harry was here, _right here_ with Zayn – James Dean and Jim Morrison weren't. The Beatles, the background music to Zayn's young adult life, were now a relic of the Sixties. Richard “Slick Dick” Nixon was elected President the same year Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy were killed. And to add insult to injury, Nixon was re-elected four years later, decisively defeating Democratic anti-war candidate George McGovern. Two years later, Nixon resigned. Then Saigon fell and President Ford declared an end to the Vietnam War in '75. The boys all came back home.

Things weren't as bad as they used to be, but in some ways they were worse. Jimmy Carter was President, but groups like the Black Panthers were just _gone_ , the leaders that had once handed out fliers on campus dead, in jail, or living abroad. Zayn had to live in a world where Richard Nixon was president for several fucking years, but it was also the same world that had gifted Zayn with _The Godfather_ and _The Godfather Part II_.

Zayn wondered if Harry had seen the movie, because when Michael first laid eyes upon Apollonia, Zayn couldn't help but think of the night he and Harry had first spent together. Zayn didn't know Italian, definitely couldn't remember the words the actors uttered, but he remembered the subtitles that danced across the screen – _hit by the thunderbolt_. Meeting Harry that first time had rather felt like that.

“Zayn Malik,” Harry said, smirking and looking like everything Zayn had ever wanted when he was twenty-one years old and just barely learning about the world and about himself. Harry was as smiley as he had always been, his eyes grassy green where they tracked up the length of Zayn's body, all warmth when they finally latched with Zayn's own. “Please do not tell me this is a mirage.”

Zayn laughed, cuffing the back of his neck and rubbing against the redness he was sure was blooming everywhere. “No, no mirage. Um. And you aren't one, either?”

Harry shook his head, slow and almost teasingly. “Definitely real.”

Zayn choked around a laugh, feeling jittery and nervous like this wasn't someone he had once been able to communicate with mostly by touches and glances. But Zayn was getting ahead of himself. “So. Uh. What are you doing in Rome? I – I thought you were still in New York?”

Zayn knew that Harry had bounced around a lot in the last few years, had heard as much from Louis. Cuba, then back to California for a bit, then Chicago – but not with his parents – and onward to New York. Zayn had suspicions that Harry had been working with the Weather Underground, but it wasn't like Louis would tell Zayn if Harry was. The Weathermen were exceptionally radical, even went beyond making Molotov cocktails in the kitchen. It would make sense, if Harry had moved on from the Weathermen to Rome, especially considering the violence that had racked Italy over the past ten years.

Harry shrugged, still smiling large and beautiful. If he was involved in any sort of violent radicalism, it certainly didn't show on his face. He had faint laugh lines around his mouth, sure, but he also had dimples, and that made it hard to think poorly of Harry at all.

“I wanted to do something in art,” Harry said, biting at his lip. “I had been working at a small gallery in New York but there was an opening here, so.” Harry flapped his arms against his sides and gestured around at the classics decorating the wall. “Here I am!”

“And here you are,” Zayn echoed, feeling more than a little dazed as he took everything in. Took Harry in, started to come to terms with the realization that Harry was here, living and breathing and real.

“But what brings you to Rome?” Harry asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “Besides fate, I mean.”

Zayn shook his head at Harry's boldness, knowing that fondness must be etched into every pore on his face. “You can't know that.”

“'Course I can,” Harry answered brightly. “It's gotta be, right? For us to meet here – the two of us at my job, ten years later? Can't be anything _but_ fate.”

Zayn opened his mouth and shut it, running his hands over the stubble on his chin while he tried to work through Harry's words. Harry had always had a habit of just saying things, throwing out huge, loaded words as though there weren't any consequences. Zayn had always been more cautious, slower to throw himself to the wolves, but he did remember envying Harry's openness, his trusting recklessness.

“So you are coming back to mine, right?” Harry asked, still grinning wide. If Zayn didn't know any better, he would say that Harry was smirking wolfishly. But Zayn still knew Harry better than he had ever really known anyone else – besides his son, but Kaiden was still young and relatively uncomplicated. Even still, Harry's hands were shaking and the grin didn't quite reach his eyes. He was afraid that Zayn would say 'No' and really, considering the last time they had seen each other, Harry had every reason to be scared.

Zayn had turned Harry down once before and Zayn didn't regret anything about his life now. Didn't regret getting married and divorced, didn't regret his son, didn't regret going back to school so he could better provide for Kaiden. But Zayn did sometimes wonder what it would've been like if he had been reckless, too, if he would've been selfish and thought about himself and his own well-being. And Harry.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Zayn sighed, more than a little put on. Harry's face bloomed and Zayn smirked, biting at his bottom lip. “Yeah, I'm going back to yours.”

  
  


The conversation as they walked back to Harry's apartment wasn't stilted, but it wasn't entirely easygoing, either. They caught up on all of the expected topics – politics, their mutual friends, Yoko Ono. But Zayn knew they needed to get to the heavier things, the things they had left on hold when Harry went in search of revolution in Cuba.

Although that wasn't entirely fair, to discount Harry's experiences. Harry clearly hadn't been playing revolutionary. He had done things that Zayn hadn't, had committed to agitating for a better world while Zayn ran scared, dejected, and tried to seek solace in the illusion of domesticity.

Harry lived about twenty minutes from the Galleria, in an absolutely ancient apartment building. The door to his flat stuck when he tried to open it and there was all types of stuff streamed over the floor once they finally walked in and flicked on the light – scarves, pairs of jeans. And books. Piles and piles of books.

“You have a girlfriend hidden in here?” Zayn asked, standing in the middle of the living room and giving himself another minute to take it all in. The ways that Harry was exactly the same and the ways that he was different. Harry's gait hadn't really changed, even though his chest was broader and his frame seemed leaner around the middle. Harry still piled his books all over the place and left tea mugs on the floor, but Zayn didn't recognize any of these cups. Didn't recognize anything in this apartment, when Zayn thought about it harder.

Harry turned slightly, his face half-cloaked in shadow. Zayn's breath almost caught in his chest, his mind supplying the once common image of Harry looking at Zayn from across a tiny twin bed in that West Oakland house. The one with its creaking floors and crashing screen doors. Harry's face illuminated by the moonlight as he leaned in close to whisper a secret or wrap his hands around Zayn's middle, their legs intertwining underneath the covers. Zayn had tried not to think about it, told himself to get over childish first loves, so he forgot how much he missed it. How much he missed Harry.

But now, even with a flat between them, Zayn could remember. The recollection was so visceral the entirety of Zayn's body ached with the need to be closer, to feel Harry's hair between his fingers again and relearn the wickedness of Harry's tongue.

Of course, that was if Harry still wanted it. If it was fate, the stars and the moon and the earth all in perfect alignment like Harry had once swore they would be, as sure of himself as a kid standing in a dark Berkeley apartment and breaking his lover's heart could be. How love was the easiest thing. It was just everything else that was hard.

“No,” Harry answered slowly, jolting Zayn back into the present. “Why would I have a girlfriend?”

“Boyfriend, then,” Zayn asked, licking over his lips with a quick dart of tongue. That was a word that Zayn had once struggled around – unsure as to what he and Harry _were_ , even. But some things had changed since '68. The Stonewall Riots, for one, and there were far more queer people in San Francisco, now. An openly gay man was even running for public office there. It wasn't like Zayn had set up shop in San Francisco himself, but. Things were different. Harry could have a boyfriend and people would still mind, but it wasn't like before.

Either way, Harry was regarding Zayn with this sharp, pinched expression. Zayn wasn't sure what it meant. “Of course not, Zayn,” Harry finally settled upon, and it sounded almost as desperate as a plea. “But what about you?”

“What about me?”

“I've asked, you know,” Harry replied. And Zayn knew that Harry was trying to sound casual but his arms were crossed tight across his chest and his face was still tense in that way he got when he was steeling himself for a fight. “You're the one who got away – of course I kept tabs. I know you're married. I can see the tan on your finger from here.”

Zayn clapped himself on the back for not letting his eyes stray from Harry's face, for not dropping his gaze to trace over his left ring finger. “I just did it as another way to try and dodge the draft. We ended it last year.”

“Did you love her?” Harry's poor voice cracked in the middle of it and he flinched at himself, pink lips pulled together in a misshapen pout.

“I did,” Zayn said. Because he had. It hadn't been a full love, nothing like the one Zayn's mom and dad had, but that didn't mean it was any less important. “I loved her, but it wasn't like it was with you.”

And then it was just like Zayn had never let himself imagine during lonely nights. Lips crashing together, desperate, clutching fingers and backs pressed against walls, as aching and all-consuming as it had been almost ten years ago. As if they had never left each other, as if Zayn had told Harry, “No, I'm not letting you leave,” and instead pressed Harry against the mattress and kissed the thought of Cuba out of his mind. They were both shaking with it, fingers trembling as they undid belt buckles and shuffled out of jeans, digging fingers into hips and dragging ragged fingernails over flesh.

Zayn ended up with his face pressed against the wall, Harry's cock nestled in between his cheeks without pressing in, Harry just rocking his hard length against Zayn's crack. Harry spit into his hand before wrapping it around Zayn's cock, jerking fast and brutal, like the world would end if he didn't make Zayn come right then. And Zayn was close, had been since the moment he recognized Harry's tousled curls, maybe, his toes curling against Harry's tiled floor as he panted hot and wet against the wall.

“Harry,” Zayn gasped. “Harry – please – I wanna – can I – ”

And Harry _knew_ , was the thing, knew exactly what it was that Zayn needed even though Zayn couldn't quite get the words out. So Harry let go of Zayn's cock and spun Zayn around, crashing their lips together again. And it was like fireworks and the happily ever after of a fairytale and all of the cliches that Zayn had tried to search for with other people, Harry still tasting like jam and English tea even though that didn't quite make sense. Harry's eyes sliced to Zayn's very core when he finally pulled away, and then he was threading his fingers through Zayn's and pulling Zayn into the bedroom.

Harry dropped Zayn's fingers once they were through the doorway and reached for Zayn's cock instead, walking backwards until the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed. And then Harry was lying back against the mattress, gesturing for Zayn to rummage through the bedside table even as he coated his own fingers with saliva and began pressing them into himself.

Zayn grabbed a condom and a bottle of lube from Harry's table and watched Harry prepare himself. Harry was panting and leaking against his own stomach, eyes squeezed shut and whimpering. And then Harry was forcing his eyes open and murmuring Zayn's name, and Zayn was at Harry's side in a flash, running his hands over hip that was no longer quite as meaty with baby fat.

It was nothing like the last time they had done this together. Zayn hadn't been expecting anything, figured that at the most this could be an experience to finally get Harry out of his system. One last time for the road and all that. But instead, Zayn found the intimacy he had been searching for, staring into Harry's eyes as Zayn rocked his way inside. Harry wrapped his legs around Zayn's waist and pushed Zayn in deeper, both of them gasping out at the sensation. They were sweaty, the apartment hot and muggy, and Zayn was breathless, muscles straining. Staring at Harry felt like looking at a lighthouse and Harry was so, so beautiful, his face conjuring all of Zayn's favorite memories when Harry came untouched between them, streaking both of their stomachs with white.

It hardly even mattered that Zayn came as Harry's body echoed with the aftershocks of his orgasm, Harry's insides tensing around Zayn's cock as they both panted and cursed. Because when Zayn did finally empty into the condom, all he could think about was how he had to do this again. How they had to do everything again and finally make things right.

  
  


They ended up cuddled together, afterward. Same as it had been so many years before, with Harry's record player propped up on the dresser and Frankie Valli belting the song that had always been one of theirs. Harry was tapping along Zayn's shoulder and leaving goosebumps in his wake and Zayn was fighting against the urge to fall asleep, warm and cocooned against a boy he had once met at a rally.

“So what was this?” Harry asked, voice gruff and almost bitter. “You're in Rome and we happen to see each other and fuck. But then what? You go back to the States and forget about me again?”

It felt a little unfair to bring this up now, when Zayn still couldn't make heads or tails of what had even happened. It felt like a dream, just like how being with Harry always felt. And Zayn had once thought that was okay, that it was all right to live in a fantasy world with someone else, but he wasn't so sure now. Zayn needed time to take all of his thoughts apart.

But Zayn didn't have the time to do all of that quite yet, so instead he mumbled, “I don't know,” and hoped Harry would leave it there.

But Harry didn't because he never could. “Zayn, I can't just – I can't just let you leave again,” Harry said. “I'm not going to make the same mistakes I made before.”

“It's not like before either way,” Zayn pointed out. “We're not stupid kids anymore. We're not – neither of us – blind idealists who think taking some pictures and going to some rallies will make a difference. I – I've got other things to worry about.”

Harry jutted out his chin. “You mean your son.”

Zayn nodded. “Kaiden. Yes.”

Harry laughed and rubbed his hands over his eyes before letting them flop back against the mattress. “Louis told me how excited you were when he was born. I – Louis called me as soon as he got back from the hospital, said that most of the time babies look like these weird little aliens but this kid – your son – was otherworldly. I knew this baby must be an angel, then, just like you.”

Zayn held his breath, remembering the moment himself. He and Kaiden's mother had gotten together mostly out of convenience, Zayn because he had been terrified that he might be called up, she because her parents were starting to get suspicious that she had never shown any real interest in boys. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement, really. Kaiden hadn't been planned and they hadn't been sure how they would be able to afford a baby, but Kaiden was such a blessing, had been from the first moment Zayn laid eyes on him.

“I want to meet him,” Harry said. He was picking at a thread on the comforter, wrapping it around his finger and tugging on it. “I want to meet him and – and I wanna go back and see everyone. See Louis and Liam and Niall – and I know Danny lives in Alameda now, with his wife and baby. And – and Niall told me that Aunt Ada still lives in West Oakland, even. Or she had been, the last time I'd asked. She's getting up there in years and I – I need to make sure I learn all of her recipes.”

“But you live here now, right?” Zayn replied gently. “Here – in Italy? And you've got a job here, a real one. You can't just _leave_.”

Harry shrugged, smiling sadly. “You know I can. Just leaving – that's what got us into this mess in the first place.”

Zayn bit at his lip and tried to fight against the ridiculous smile that was threatening to spill across his face. Harry was silly. This – all of it, it was so, so silly. It didn't feel real, but Zayn also knew it was the truest thing in the world.

“Zayn, I know we're not blind idealists anymore,” Harry started, voice low and heavy with emotion. “I know a lot has changed and that we still need to get through everything that had tore us apart the first time around. We let the world get in the way and everything has only gotten uglier in the meantime. But right now, sitting here with you, it's easy to see how things can be beautiful, just like I had believed when I was nineteen. We're not idealists anymore, but I kind of still want to be.”

Zayn closed his eyes and pressed his lips to the center of Harry's chest. It was the least he could do, because he understood.

And deep down, Zayn felt the exact same way.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
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